When Our Minds Betray Us
by Sweet as the Punch
Summary: It's been eight months since Jessica died, and Sam is back at Stanford. His friends say he suffered a nervous breakdown. How will Sam react when he learns the truth? NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**When Our Minds Betray Us  
**by Sweet as the Punch

Warnings: mild language (nothing worse than you'd see on the show), some graphic violence, themes some may consider overdone  
Timeline: takes place a few months after_ Asylum, _because that's when I started writing this. None of the following episodes ever happened, so you'll have to forget everything you've learned.  
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all of its characters do not belong to me.

Summary: Eight months after Jessica's death, Sam finds himself back at Stanford. His friends say he suffered a nervous breakdown.

AN: I've been sitting on this story for awhile now, and it's finally almost finished. This is a rambling story - I always love a story that's good and long, and this meets at least one of those qualifications. With all the great writers on here, I was almost too intimidated to post this--but as long as one person is reading, I'll keep updating!

* * *

When Sam woke, he woke gasping from a nightmare, an intimately familiar one that he wished he would never experience again but knew he absolutely would. 

But the act of waking up – now that, _that_ felt strangely unfamiliar. He had never woken up like this before, although he couldn't explain what was so unusual about it. It just felt different this time, like something was missing. And he swore that this time, this awakening was worse somehow, the jerk to consciousness more severe, the tremble of fear and horror more pronounced. The nightmare had been the same – Jessica, her beautiful face gaping with shock, pinned above him like a collected butterfly before those hellish flames swarmed over her and swallowed her whole – but he awoke with a new, unexplainable alarm.

He struggled against the covers, pushing himself into a sitting position so he could look at his surroundings, so he could see where he was and think.

The room he lay in was dim, but enough light filtered through the closed curtains that he could tell it was daytime, and it gave him just enough light to see. He was surrounded by unfamiliar but un-frightening objects – frilly curtains, an antique desk and bureau set, a bookshelf half-filled with both books and trinkets. The bed underneath him was thick, almost too soft, and the blankets that covered him were definitely more fluffy than what he was used to.

The room itself was far from disturbing, but the fact he didn't recognize it was very much so.

He glanced at the bedside table, hoping to find a clock. Not only was that successful – 4:35 greeted him in glowing red – but he also found a handy, helpful clue in the form of a picture frame, complete with color photograph. Sam immediately grabbed it and brought it closer so he could see.

A family portrait—and to his immense relief, it was a family he recognized. Zach Warren and his sister Rebecca, smiling politely into the camera. They were two close friends from college, and he had seen enough photos to recognize their parents standing behind them. Sam let himself relax slightly. He was with at least one of the Warrens, most likely, and since he didn't recognize the room as either Rebecca's dorm or Zach's apartment, he could only assume he was at their family home.

But how the hell did he end up there?

Sam groaned and stared hard at the pattern of the bedspread. But no matter how hard he tried to concentrate, he could not pull up any memories of the day before.

His efforts were interrupted when the door to the bedroom creaked open and a blonde head peaked in. Rebecca. She turned her head towards the bed, and when she saw Sam staring back at her, her eyes widened almost comically. The next instant, the door was flung open and she rushed into the room, although somehow managing to keep a cautious, gentle step at the same time.

"Sam, you're awake! Oh, thank God, I thought for sure-"

She snapped her mouth shut suddenly and then smiled happily at him, and Sam was so grateful for the warmth behind that gesture he almost felt like crying. That smile he knew, and the relief that followed almost pushed him over the edge. But his confusion was enough to keep him focused.

"Rebecca," he greeted softly, trying to return the smile but failing.

"How are you feeling?" she asked him as she came closer, her voice filled with soft concern.

He wanted to tell her he was fine, but he couldn't. "Weird," he said instead. He licked his lips, unsure of how to continue. "Hey, uh, no offense, but...where am I, and why am I here?"

She nodded at him, apparently expecting his question. "This is the guest room of my new apartment," she explained with a half-smile, waving her arm in demonstration. Sam followed her arm with his eyes, secretly impressed with the large space and nice furniture. But then again, he always heard Becky came from a wealthy family.

He turned back to her for the second answer, which she gave him with eyebrows raised in sympathy. "And, well, you kinda showed up at our doorstep. You needed a place to crash for a while."

To his disappointment, her answer didn't trigger a rush of memory like he thought it would. He frowned, bursting with even more questions. "But...What about before that? What happened? How'd I get here?"

She bit her lip. "You honestly don't remember?" she asked him. He shook his head mutely. "What was the last thing you do remember?" she continued hesitantly. It almost seemed as if she feared his answer.

Sam thought for a moment and the answer came to him almost immediately. Before he could speak, he had to swallow a sudden lump that grew in his throat.

"I remember Jessica..."

He stopped himself, unable to finish that thought. A sad look passed over Rebecca's face, and he knew she understood. "But," he continued, frustrated, forcing out words one right after the other, "I know that was months ago. I mean, it feels like it was just yesterday—but I also know I've had that feeling every day since it happened. I know time has passed. The thing is, I don't know what happened—I can't remember anything about those days. I can't remember _anything_ that's happened in the past..." He didn't know the end to that sentence, and his frantic stream finally trailed off.

Rebecca filled in for him, looking rather devastated. "Eight months. It's been over eight months, Sam," she told him sadly.

Sam let out a long breath, but strangely, he was more surprised by his lack of surprise. Eight months of lost memory was a horrifyingly large amount, but the timing felt right to him. The pain of losing Jessica felt eight-months dull – but not nearly dull enough.

"What happened in those eight months?" he asked, still feeling lost. "What have I been doing?"

She shook her head and shifted uncomfortably while he waited impatiently. After a moment of hesitation, she sat down on the edge of the bed, causing the mattress to dip slightly. "I don't know exactly...You disappeared right after Jess's funeral," she told him.

She looked down at her lap and started to play with her hands. "You had a nervous breakdown, Sam, or something." As she paused, Sam concentrated on the far wall, trying to force that information into his mind.

A breakdown. A _breakdown_.

It took his breath away, the thought that he'd gone crazy. How could have that happen? Was he really that unstable? But as much as he wanted to deny it, he felt so off balance, so strange that it made sense. He knew Jessica's death hit him hard, he still felt that.

But to lose his memory...

Rebecca tore him from his thoughts, rubbing her hand along the blanket over his knee. "Then two days ago, you suddenly showed up here," she continued. "You've been asleep ever since."

Sam blinked several times, processing her words. None of it seemed to hit a target in his mind, but at the same time he couldn't refute it. He still had questions, and he fumbled for a simple one, one Rebecca may know the answer to. "How did I even know where you live? I've never been here before."

_Or have I?_ He'd thought that'd be a safe question, but it hit him how much he was unaware of. He was lost, and he _hated_ that feeling. Or rather, he hated all these feeling_s_, every single emotion that clashed inside his mind and chest.

"No, but we did keep in contact. Cell phones and email and such," she explained. "And even though I never knew where you were, I made sure you always knew where you could find me." Her soft words made him almost feel ashamed. It sounded as if she had been the one to keep in contact.

"What did I say when I showed up?"

"I don't know," she told him with a slight wince. "You were pretty out of it."

"Oh," he said lamely. He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't remember any of this."

She patted his knee, still covered by the bedspread. "I'm sorry, Sam," she told him, the sincerity in her voice giving Sam a little bit of comfort. "Everything will be okay now."

Sam could only hope she was right.

She flashed him a smile again, this time broad and open. "Let me get Zach," she said, sounding cheerful again. "I know he'll be happy you're awake."

* * *

Sam was extremely grateful for another familiar sight: Zach with his thick, dark hair and wide smile. 

But he was caught off-guard when he was slapped with a sudden memory. Instead of waiting for Rebecca to return with Zach, he had followed her out of the bedroom and into the living room where they found her older brother.

The moment he saw Zach's face, the memory tore into his mind, making him blanch. Zach's girlfriend had been killed, mere weeks after Jessica. He didn't know the details, only that she had been murdered out in St. Louis. Something told him it had been especially gruesome.

It was his only memory from those missing eight months. He was appalled that it was such a tragic one.

When he saw Zach's deeply-lined face, he felt sick to his stomach. Zach had shaved his goatee, which should have given him a younger appearance. Yet he looked like he aged years since the last time he saw him, even though he was only a few months older than Sam. Sam shouldn't have been surprised, but it sent a twinge through him.

It was impossible to imagine a pain worse than losing a loved one, and he knew Zach felt that same, gut-wrenching pain he did.

After Zach greeted him with a quick handshake-hug combination and a few brief words Sam barely heard, Sam asked if he could use their shower. He wanted to stop feeling so overwhelmed, or at least feel it in privacy.

Besides, according to Rebecca he had been out for two days, and he definitely felt like it.

In the safety of the bathroom, as he stripped out of his grimy clothes, he felt something pull on his back. Reaching back and angling in front of the mirror, Sam discovered a large, square bandage near his shoulder blade. Startled, Sam couldn't stop himself from peeling it away.

Underneath was a nasty looking cut, a zagged, angry line of red. Sam examined it in the mirror, but he could not figure out where it had come from. He soon gave up, quickly losing energy. It had already started to heal, so he tossed the bloodied bandage away and left it along.

He surveyed the rest of his body and found several bruises and other, smaller cuts dotting his skin. His hands started shaking as he fingered them, a flash of fear and nervousness and something else overtaking him.

It scared him. What had he been doing over the past eight months?

Sam forced them from his mind, not wanting to deal with it just yet. Instead, he cranked up the hot water in the shower and stepped under the spray. He didn't get out until the heat started to fade from the water.

As he dried himself, he found someone had left a clean set of clothes laying on the counter. Relieved, he quickly pulled them on, trying to ignore the fact that he didn't recognize them even though they were his size.

After he came out of the bathroom, the three of them sat around the small kitchen table so the Warrens could fill Sam in on their lives since he had left. Even though the shower had woken him up, Sam still felt detached, disjointed from everything, but he was interested in the updates from his friends, and grateful for the distraction it provided.

After Emily's murder, Zach, unable to bear living alone in St. Louis, had moved back to Stanford with his sister. He planned on staying just until he could get his feet underneath him again – which, he admitted dryly, would take a while. He found a temporary office job nearby, and between that and their parents' money, he had enough to support himself and Rebecca.

Rebecca, meanwhile, planned on finishing school, although she had to wait to return until the fall since they hadn't moved back in time for the spring semester. Together the siblings shared their three-bedroom, two-bath apartment, and Sam, they quickly offered, was more than welcomed to stay with them.

In fact, they insisted on sharing the apartment with him. They even managed to make it sound as if Sam would be doing them a favor if he stayed. It would be a lot more fun to have an extra roommate, and maybe he could help ease the inevitable bickering between two siblings.

Besides, as Rebecca pointed out, he was in the same situation as she was, college-wise, since they both had dropped out the first semester of their senior year. She suggested that it would be so much easier to return if they did it together. Sam had to admit she was right, although the thought of school hadn't crossed his mind until just then.

And since he had nowhere else to go, he accepted their offer.

He was given in their spare bedroom, the one he had woken up in. His only belongings fit inside a duffel bag he didn't remember bringing, but the Warrens were quick to offer him the use the bedroom's furniture (which Zach teased Rebecca about being old, earning him a quick slap) and anything else he needed. What's theirs is his, they told him without hesitation.

Once those decisions were made, Sam was left to dwell on his thoughts and his strange, new surroundings.

The following days melted into a mass of confusion and stress as the Warrens continued their daily lives, leaving Sam dazed and alone. As hard as he tried, he could not bring up any memories of the past months, not even flashes or impressions or images. He gave himself headaches, trying to force them out, but there wasn't even a string of thought he could tug on.

Rebecca asked if he wanted to see a doctor, but he refused. In his mind, he knew a psychiatrist or counselor could be a big help in recovering his memories. But his pride held him back, along with some other elusive feeling. Fear, maybe.

He couldn't uncover anything even as concrete as a feeling or hunch--but he sensed something. He didn't know how to describe. It just felt...wrong.

The Warrens, though, were better companions than he could have asked for. They gave him space, but also remained within easy reach, and though they didn't seem to know how to act around him, they managed to find the right balance. Sam had been good friends with them, but now he felt a connection he had never felt with them before.

Their calm presence proved to be a huge blessing for Sam, especially when he thought he was going completely insane. There were times when he felt on the verge of tearing his own brain out, just so he could spread it in front of him and see what lay there. Even though he knew didn't work that way, it would have been such a relief just to get rid of those jumbled thoughts that buzzed relentlessly through his brain. Rebecca and Zach, though, they kept him anchored.

But soon, he settled into somewhat of a routine, and even found a kind of refuge in front of the television or in a book, where for long moments he didn't have to think about his own life. A week after he "woke up" for the first time, he and Rebecca registered for classes, going to the library so they could do that side-by-side. They even found a couple of electives they could take together, which made the return to school a little less daunting.

Although, to be honest, Sam wondered if he would suffer some sort of panic attack before then. As much as he always to enjoy school, his life still felt way too unhinged for him to even think about a thing like college. He felt that the slightest jolt could topple everything over so that it all crashed around him into a million jagged pieces.

But he forced his mind onto other things, simple, less scary things. Sam needed a job because however he spent the past six months had seriously depleted his bank account, which had never been large to begin with. However, the only job he could find on such short notice that offered flexibility he'd need when classes started was at a grocery store. All the coffee shop jobs had already been taken by freshmen and sophomores, and he didn't want to try for anything more, like an internship. Not yet. So he took the fulltime job as half-cashier, half-assistant manager.

It was strange how much and how quickly a routine helped him find some peace and balance. Parts of his mind still felt foggy, and his stomach still twisted whenever he tried and failed to dig out those hidden pieces, but his wild panic had been pushed down to a level he could manage. Between his newfound job and his two new roommates, he had found some semblance of a normal life. Weeks went by, and the ground underneath him grew more and more stable.

* * *

Yet the nightmares still came. 

And every time he had one, he still woke up with a gasp, alarm squeezing at his chest, his mind screaming with panic. It was during those frenzied first moments - when he wasn't completely awake or aware yet - when he felt the most vulnerable. He felt open and defenseless, even though he knew he was completely alone in the room.

The feeling confused him. He knew there was nothing he should be afraid of. But it was almost like...he felt vulnerable because he _was_ alone.

* * *

Three weeks into his new job, and Sam had already lost himself in the monotony of swiping barcodes and stocking canned vegetables. It was a Sunday night, and Mrs. Joan Haney was writing a check for her $8.87 worth of purchases. Sam had already memorized her name; after all, this was the fourth time she'd gone through his lane in those three weeks he'd been there, and she wrote a check every time. 

Sam let his eyes drift upwards, away from the conveyor belt and cash register and the upright stacks of bags, and looked out across the store. It was neither busy nor slow; a handful of customers coasted from one aisle to another, and a couple of them roamed the ends of the checkout lanes, looking for the shortest line.

Mrs. Haney was still scrawling on the check with her slow, steady hand, and had only started to write "eight dollars and..." Sam looked back up, his eyes going to the lane two down from his. He had only meant to see how Monica's line compared to his, but his eyes caught on the customer she was handling.

In a dizzying instant, everything rushed away from Sam until it was only him and the other man. His breath caught in his throat, Sam couldn't move, didn't even think about moving.

He had never before seen the guy, who dropped a six-pack of beer and a tube of toothpaste onto the belt, and there was nothing unusual about him. Scruffy jacket, worn jeans, hair cut short and eyes alert and bright, he looked rougher, much less polished than the townspeople Sam had grown to know. Though he was only a few years older than Sam, he seemed aged somehow. Maybe that's what caught Sam's eye.

Suddenly the man looked up and met Sam's eye. His gaze, deep and penetrating, burned through him. Sam felt heat coloring his cheeks, realizing he'd been caught staring at a complete stranger, and he immediately looked away. His heart wasn't racing, but it pounded against his chest. That look—those eyes—it was as if the stranger could read him and all his secrets.

Sam jerked back to Mrs. Haney, who was holding the check out to him expectantly. The air felt thicker as he watched himself reach out to take it from her. He flashed her a quick, polite smile and quickly turned around so he could thread the piece of paper through the machine.

He risked a glance out the corner of his eye, but the guy was gone from the lane. Looking around, Sam found his broad back just as he stepped through the automatic door.

As Mrs. Haney left, Sam settled back against the partition that blocked him in. He wiped his dry mouth with the back of his hand, a nervous gesture more than anything. What had gotten into him?

He didn't have to time to figure it out because the next customer had already barreled herself forward, dumping an armful of groceries onto the belt. Sam took advantage of the distraction, letting himself forget about the stranger that didn't belong.

* * *

Please review! Posting on this site is one of the most nerve-racking, embarrassing things I've ever done. When I posted my last story, my face was beet red that entire day before I got my first review. 


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you, everyone who's reading! And a great, big thank you to all who reviewed! I think you should know just how very awesome you all are.

ooOOoo

Chapter 2

That Friday, Zach took him out for a couple of beers, just the two of them. After a week of working long hours, Zach had crashed the moment he got home from his job, and three hours later, he'd woken up in a sweat and stumbled into the living room. He made the offer the instant he saw Sam staring at the television screen.Once he saw his ashen face, Sam almost declined, having a sinking suspicion that he knew what the topic of the evening would be.

But then he realized that if he found a way to release his pain from Jessica's death in those missing eight months, he didn't remember it. That pain still felt fresh, locked up in his mind where it was slowly fermenting.

So maybe they would both benefit from a two-person sorrow party.

"What do you remember?" Zach eventually asked him through the dull roar of speaker music. They were three beers into the evening, and it was the first time he broached the subject.

It felt strange, uncomfortable to Sam. He and Zach were good friends, had been since Sam was a sophomore and Zach a junior. But they were never that close. Yet, here they were, sharing intimately horrifying experiences. It created an automatic link, one that no one else would, or should, ever have.

But Sam couldn't get past the fact that he was nothing more than a friend. His mind insisted on forcing that distinction.

Sam guzzled the rest of his beer, about three mouthfuls worth, before he answered. Zach's question was vague, but Sam knew what he meant. "I don't," he finally admitted. "I mean, my mind is so messed up, I don't—I can't tell what was real and what's just a nightmare. I know Jess...I know she was trapped somehow, and I couldn't get to her. I keep imagining her on the ceiling, but I know that's just—I mean, no wonder I had a mental breakdown."

He snorted miserably. He didn't want to continue, but he couldn't force himself to stop. "The fire, it almost...exploded somehow. And then she was gone."

Zach nodded, picking at the label of his empty bottle. The waitress rolled by, and he indicated another round. Sam wanted something a stronger, but figured that would only make things worse.

"Do you remember how you got out?" Zach asked, failing to keep the curiosity from his voice.

Sam shook his head. "Barely. I kept screaming at Jessica, that was all I could do. I think someone came in and dragged me out, but I wasn't really paying attention, you know?" He frowned at the memory. "I probably didn't even thank him. Or her," he added, drawing a blank on his rescuer's face or even body shape.

Zach grabbed one of the fresh bottles the waitress set on their table. Sam took the other one, and brought it to his lips without taking a sip. "What about you? I mean, like, what did you see?" Once he got that out, he took a gulp.

"I was the one who found her," Zach replied darkly. "Man, I can still see it, every time I close my eyes. Tied to a chair, covered in blood, her eyes half-open but completely dead." He shuddered, barely able to finish before his voice cracked.

Sam shuddered with him.When he learned some of the horrific details from Rebecca, he was left wondering why Zach hadn't been the one to lose it. He had more right to than Sam. Sam lost his loved one to an apartment fire – that was enough to scar anybody - but Zach saw his loved one tortured and slashed to death. Sam couldn't even imagine that horror.

Zach's deep voice tore him from his thoughts. "We shouldn't have to be dealing with this, Sam. That shouldn't have happened to them," he said thickly.

Sam nodded in agreement, feeling a weight press into his shoulders, a pressure wrap around his heart. He felt eyes on him, and he looked up to find Zach studying him, looking as if he wanted to say something. He waited, not sure if he wanted to hear whatever he had to say.

Zach finally sighed. "You know, I never got the chance to thank someone for saving my life, either."

Sam looked at him, startled. That was not what he had expected to hear. "You almost died?"

"No, not exactly. But..." He shook his head slowly. "I was this close to spending the rest of my life locked up for murder. So yeah, my life was saved."

Sam's eyes widened.

"I—I remember hearing that! What the hell happened?" He hadn't remembered until just now that Zach had been a suspect in Emily's death. It stunned him that he knew the beginning of his story but not the end. Was that a memory he forgotten, or had he been so far gone he hadn't bothered with it? Sam sincerely hoped it was the former. He could deal with a faulty mind, but not with being a lousy person.

A moment passed before Zach answered. "They caught the real killer." It was an abrupt explanation, and Sam could tell there was something more to the story. But if Zach didn't want to explain, Sam didn't have the energy to press him.

"Good. Glad to hear that," Sam replied lamely, unsure of what to say. He blinked a couple of times and then squinted his eyes. His head felt dull and his stomach churned.

"God, this sucks." Here they were, two friends sharing a few bears and wallowing in their misery, suffering from a pair of losses no one should have to endure. Meanwhile the world continued on, yanking them along with it, when Sam wasn't ready for it. "This all _sucks_."

After a pause, Zach gave himself a visible shake. He met Sam's eye and raised his bottle towards him. "Here's to their memory. We will never forget." Sam clinked his bottle with his.

ooOOoo

Sam finally came up with a word for the wrongness he felt whenever he tried to think back to the time he had lost. It wasn't the perfect term, but it was the closest he could come to describing the feeling. _Darkness_. Whenever he tried to dig into the back of his mind, all he could sense was darkness.

So he hadn't press too hard, afraid of what he would find hidden there. Afraid of what he had done in those eight months that had been so horrible his mind repressed the memories. He hesitated, not wanting to explore that blackness.

But after his life had started to settle, he started to grow brave, and curious.

He finally felt he was ready to ask questions, starting with the night he showed up at the Warrens' door. It turned out Zach had been away when Sam arrived so Sam had to wait until Rebecca came home. A few restless hours later, he was finally able to corner her in the kitchen. As they sat at the table, she reluctantly agreed to help him, but she warned him there wasn't much to tell.

His first question was a basic one. "How did I get here?" he asked her.

Unfortunately, he didn't get an answer. Rebecca shook her head and shrugged. "I couldn't tell you."

Sam frowned, disgruntled. "You don't have any idea? The bus station is on the other side of town--did I look like I walked the entire way?"

"Not really..." she said, looking sheepishly unsure.

"You didn't see a taxi?" She shook her head in answer.

"Well, I didn't drive here, right?" If he had, a car would have been parked outside somewhere.

"No, you didn't."

Sam bit his lip. Would he have hitchhiked? That seemed awfully dangerous to him, but who knows what frame of mind he had been in. He was just about to ask when Rebecca stopped him. "I wish I could help you, but I didn't see how you got here."

Suppressing a sigh, he tried another angle. "Okay, how did I explain the cut on my back? Or was I already passed out when you treated it?"

Rebecca started at that. "What cut?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowing together.

"When I woke up, there was a big bandage on my back." His eyes widened and he tilted his head. "You mean you didn't put that there?"

"No," she said. "Uh, maybe you did."

Sam dismissed that with a shake of his head. "No, it was on my shoulder blade—I doubt I could have reached that and made it so neat." He looked at her. "So who did then?"

She looked away. "Sam, I...I just don't havethose answers for you." The frustration in her voice was enough to warn him not to continue.

"All right," he relented with a sigh. "You said I was out of it. I wasn't drunk, was I?"

"No," she replied.

This was getting ridiculous. Sam felt like he was a panelist on an old gameshow, one who had to ask the right questions to come up with the mystery answer.

"Well, did I act like I was drugged? Sick? Crazy?" He pushed forward, undeterred. "Was I confused? Could you tell if I was-"

Rebecca shook her head again, her movements growing more jerky, restless. "No, no! Nothing like that." She shifted in her seat, pushing herself back against the chair as she brushed her hair off of her forehead.

Sam leaned forward in retaliation. "What did I say? What were my exact words?"

"I don't know!" she burst out.

Stunned, Sam stared at her, gritting his teeth, wondering what had just happened. Rebecca was almost near tears, and Sam had rarely felt so frustrated.

He knew was getting nowhere. "Is there anything, _anything_ at all you can tell me about that night?" he finally asked, forcing his voice to be soft.

"I'm sorry, Sam," she replied, looking down.

After that, Sam stopped asking.

* * *

Please review! 


	3. Chapter 3

As it turned out, instead of panicking, he found himself looking forward to the start school. Though butterflies swarmed inside his stomach throughout the first day, the classes actually gave him a sort of comfort rather than take away the stability he was afraid of losing.

From the very start, Sam dove headfirst into schoolwork, relishing the distraction it gave him. It gave him a new sense of purpose, and that felt somewhat incredible to him.

It started out fairly easy, since most of his classes were repeats of the ones he left halfway last year. Yet, even though it wasn't needed, he immersed himself with the task of learning everything he could, making sure he understood everything the professors taught him, and doing theextra research and study when he didn't.

He tried not to think about how maybe he didn't want to be a lawyer anymore.

It was a relief, though, to find that despite his wobbly world view, he at least hadn't lost the academic part of his mind. He liked the focus that studying required of him, and he enjoyed analyzing problems and documents. Lectures soaked through his brain, and he eagerly absorbed whatever the professors threw at him.

But more than anything, he loved doing the research.

Research gave him a special kind of comfort, and the library became his second home, his second sanctuary. Every time he made a trip there, he could almost imagine a warm glow settling around him as he pulled out piles of thick, dusty tomes or typed out a string of searches on the internet. The librarian on duty would try to offer his or her assistance, but Sam found he didn't need it. After only a few days, he knew his way around as well as those who worked there. Maybe even better.

In the weeks that followed the start of school, he divided almost all of his free time between classes, the library, and his job. If he found himself with any extra time, he stayed home. He knew his social life was a pale version of what it used to be. In fact, Rebecca and Zach were pretty much the extent of his social circle. Most of his friends had graduated the year before, and of the few that remained, Sam put no more effort than exchanging a few words as he passed by.

But that was fine with him. Once, he tried picturing a night out with all of his old friends, but he couldn't, not without Jessica. He couldn't even imagine his friends before her, though he knew he had them.

Fortunately, Rebecca and Zach were the only two who knew of Sam's breakdown. As far as anybody else knew, Sam had only left for a roadtrip to clear his mind after Jessica's death. It made things a lot easier, a lot less awkward than it could have been.

His lack of friends was matched by Zach, who made as much effort as Sam when it came to going out and having a good time. Rebecca didn't fail to notice, and she didn't completely approve. Every now and then, whenever she felt they needed to see some fresh faces, she would drag the two of them out with her to meet her own group of friends.They werea small, intimate group, an easy bunch, andSam really did appreciate the break, the human contact. But if he was honest with himself, he was relieved these outings were few and far between.

Once, they went to the same bar where Sam had celebrated his last night with Jessica. After Sam mentioned that to Rebecca, they never went there again. Sam was grateful, although he couldn't bring himself to admit it.

When they did go out, he accepted the chance to let himself go. He drank enough to get a nice buzz, and his laughs come out often and easily. Sometimes he even interjected his own remarks into the conversation, but mostly he sat back with a smile on his face and let the words and laughter wash over him. In a way, he felt the same as he did when he first came to Stanford, too uncertain of himself to come out far from his shell. The difference is that this time it wasn't self-esteem that held him back.

One of these nights, he, Rebecca, and three others went out to celebrate the end of particularly rough midterms. Sam really didn't need the release; he savored the challenge those tests had presented and he felt confident in his scores. But he didn't need a reason to go out and have a good time, and he couldn't escape the relieved energy that filled the air. Soon his mood was matching the cheerfulness of those around him.

They sat at a tall round table near the bar, and they were never without a drink in front of each of them. Sam nursed his slowly, pacing himself, as he listened to the chatter around him.

At one point, Rebecca turned to him. "And I bet you did amazing on your tests," she said with a smile.

He shrugged and grinned. "Maybe." She laughed and slapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Are you going to schedule an interview now?"

Sam took a drink and shrugged again. She had been encouraging him to apply to Stanford's law school again, but he never got around to it. "Yeah, I guess I should," he admitted.

"Oh, Sam..." she said, simply. He didn't know how to respond to that, so he just gave her a half-hearted smile. She grinned back at him and nudged him playfully with her shoulder.

"Oh, _God_," a junior named Matilda suddenly groaned. "My parents are going to kill me."

"Aw, come on, I'm sure you didn't do that bad," Jim, a psych major, assured her.

"I'm sure too," Matilda shot back. "But I didn't do great, either. You know, I can just hear my mom now. 'Well, your brother earned a 4.0 every semester. Why can't you? He finished at the top of his class. Why can't you? He cured cancer and made ten billion dollars and brought about world peace. Why can't you?'"

Sam laughed politely along with everyone else as Matilda took a long gulp of her mixed drink. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Rebecca staring at him. He turned to her, confused, and she studied his face for a moment before looking away.

"Ah, so your parents play favorites, too?" the fifth member of their group, Oliver, jumped in. Sam knew Oliver from before. He had been a year behind Sam in the same pre-Law program, but after Sam's leave of absence they were now even. "My dad's the same way. It's actually kinda pathetic how we would all compete with each other just to be the 'golden child' of our family. I finally gave up."

Rebecca's eyes were on him again, watching him. Sam couldn't figure out why. Heshot her a confused look, but she turned away.

"Hey," she suddenly interrupted. "What the heck was wrong with Stennis? I swear, it looked like she was crying!" Sam didn't know who she was talking about, but Matilda and Jim did, and the conversation immediately shifted from family pressure to gossip. Sam laughed at all the right moments and made comments when they came to him. He even teased Matilda when she spotted and ducked from the "hottie" she knew from her class project group.

He went through all the motions expected of him.

They stayed for another hour before the long hours of studying caught up with them. He, Rebecca, and her friends made their way to the door together, but as soon as the cool night air of outside hit them, they parted, going their separate ways.

Rebecca and Sam said goodbye to the other three and started towards their apartment together, walking side by side. Sam had a small smile on his face, not exactly happy, but feeling in good spirits. Rebecca seemed to notice, and she gave him a friendly grin.

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned to see. A young man was bent over slightly, his forehead resting against the side of the building. Sam watched, wincing as he suddenly heaved.

"God dammit," the man muttered angrily, wiping his mouth. He pushed himself away from the building, his body waving unsteadily.

Sam was about to step forward to assist him, but there was a sudden sharp tug on his arm as Rebecca beside him stumbled backwards, falling to the ground and almost pulling him down with her. Startled and worried, Sam dropped into a crouch beside her, and she looked up at him sheepishly.

"Are you all right?" he asked her, reaching out a hand.

She nodded and pulled herself up, using his arm for leverage. "Yeah, I'm fine," she gasped as she came up, brushing dirt from her backside. "God, I'm sorry. I'm such a klutz!"

"No problem," Sam replied with an easy smile.

He looked back towards the other man, only to find that he was gone.

Sam was surprised that someone as drunk as he appeared would, or even could, move so quickly. Well, at least he wouldn't have to deal with some drunk and possibly belligerent stranger.Maybe heshouldn't have started to help anyway, not with Rebecca with him. He hoped the man would be okay.

He turned back to Rebecca to double-check that she was fine. To his surprise, she was looking around, just as he had. Strange. He didn't think she had noticed the guy.

ooOOoo

A week later, he once again woke up with his breath caught in his throat and his heart skipping a beat. There was a wild sense of disorientation when for a moment he couldn't remember where he was. He surged up into a sitting position as memories from both his nightmare and the real world came together.

Waking to a racing heart was a familiar feeling, but the nightmare that caused it – that, incredibly, was different.

Sam had to sit for a moment just to think, his mind trying to recall and interpret the images, the sounds that had assaulted his subconscious. It had been so vivid, so real. The strange thing, the part that threw him off, was the fact that he didn't recognize anybody in his dream.

The dream itself was also very strange, but then again, dreams always were. He didn't know what it meant, if anything, but it had been a scary rush, and he shuddered at some of the more horrifying moments now etched in his mind.

He ran a shaky hand through his bed-mussed hair and then forced himself out from underneath the blankets. After pulling on a pair of pants, he stumbled into the kitchen, where he found Rebecca and a fresh pot of coffee. She looked up at him, and the worried look that passed over her face told him he wasn't very good at hiding anything.

"Rough night?" she asked him. "You didn't drink _that_ much last night, did you?"

He shook his head and then said, "No. I—" He hesitated, afraid of sounding stupid. Wanting to look casual, he took out a mug and fixed himself a cup of coffee. "I had a nightmare," he confessed as he spooned sugar into his cup. He turned around, wrapping his hand around his warm mug.

Immediately, a glow of sympathy came to her eyes. "I'm sorry, Sam. Jessica?" she asked gently.

"No, actually. That's the funny part," he told her, quickly wanting to avoid that uncomfortable topic. "It was so weird. It was like I wasn't even in it."

Now Rebecca looked intrigued, and she pulled out a chair from the table, offering him a seat. Sam took it, and she sat on the opposite side. "What was it about?" she asked

Sam started to shake his head, not believing he was actually going to talk about this. But something told him he needed to, even if only to rid his mind of it. "There was this family. I think so anyway, it looked like a father with his son and daughter...But I've never seen them before – well, as far as I know. Anyway, they were camping along a beach somewhere, just hanging out, having a nice time. And then..."

He swallowed and licked his suddenly dry lips. "Suddenly this pair of werewolves attack. Just ripped them apart."

It seemed to him that Rebecca paled, but she didn't say anything. Sam rushed to explain himself. " I know it sounds silly, like a bad horror movie. I know. But it was just so..._real._ So graphic and..." He drew in a shaky breath. The girl hadn't been any older than ten, and the werewolves savagely tore her into pieces.

He looked up at Rebecca, who was watching him with a stricken expression. "What kind of sick mind would imagine something like that?" he asked her. His voice scratched roughly against his throat.

"What...what else do you remember?" she finally said.

Sam jerked his head back, startled by her question. "What do you mean?"

"Do you remember anything else from your dream?"

"Why?" Sam was still confused. "You really wanna hear all the grisly details?"

"No, no, it's not that," she replied quickly. "I just—Sometimes, details can help you figure out what your subconscious is telling you. You know what I mean?" She said it in a rush, sounding a little embarrassed but wanting to press forward. "The little details are in your dream for a reason, right? And the more you remember about a dream, the better you can, I don't know, interpret it."

Sam was still a little dubious, but she did touch on an interesting point. He could remember very specific details, things that should have been blurry or vague, too insignificant to be given defined lines and colors. The fact that they were clear could be clues. Sam frowned thoughtfully.

"The father figure was wearing a gray Tulane sweatshirt. And I remember he also had thinning blonde hair. The girl was also blonde, and the boy had darker hair."

Rebecca blinked at him. "Oh! Good, what else?" she asked enthusiastically.

"In the background, there was a black and white lighthouse with a red top. Um...the boy called his sister 'Penny' and..." Actually, the boy had screamed her name, his voice still echoed in his head, but Sam left that part out. As he talked, Rebecca began rummaging around, eventually pulling out a pen and a pad of paper. "You're writing this down?"

She nodded. "Maybe if we can see everything listed, it might provide a better picture."

Sam shrugged. "Alright," he agreed indifferently. "Um, the moon was full, which of course fits. There was a campfire and a dark green tent. The werewolves were, uh, definitely a male and a female. When they rushed in, they attacked the dad first, using their claws to slash-"

Rebecca held up a hand, interrupting him. "Okay, I think that's good enough," she said quickly.

Sam let out a relieved snort. He'd rather not relive that part of his dream. "So, what does all that tell me?"

"No idea."

He gaped at her. "Huh?" She looked at him and shrugged, giving him an apologetic smile. "But..." he protested, trailing off.

"It's a start, isn't it? Maybe we can look up one of those dream dictionaries. Or we'll do this again the next time you have a dream, and we can compare, see what kind of, uh, themes emerge."

Sam sighed with frustration. If he had known that's all their conversation would lead to, he wouldn't have bothered. Rebecca pushed herself from the table. "I'm sorry, Sam, I gotta run. I have a _ton_ of errands today." A moment later, he heard the door to her bedroom close.

Sam slumped back into his chair, swirling the coffee around in his mug. He thought voicing his nightmare would help exorcise the images from his mind, but it only left him feeling cold. Helpless.

* * *

AN: About Sam's dream - I wrote this before Nightmare, and it never occured to me that Sam would only have visions about people connected to him. So just in case you were wondering, yep, that family is just a random one, not one he knows. 

I hope that, if you stick around, all your questions will be answered! But if you're still confused about something, please ask.

If you review, I'll love you forever.


	4. Chapter 4

On November 2nd, Sam borrowed Zach's car so he could visit Jessica.

The last time he had been there was a few days after her funeral - his last complete memory from that patchy week before everything went blank. Back then he had taken a small bouquet of flowers; this time he brought with him a bouquet of flowers and a teddy bear. He knew they were useless, even unnecessary, but he needed to do this for her, however small of a gesture it would be.

On their first Valentine's Day, he had gotten her a dozen roses and a small teddy bear. It had been the first Valentine's Day he'd ever shared with anyone, and he was nervous and anxious and excited, and he did what he thought he was supposed to do. But as soon as he saw the look on her face, he knew he had disappointed her. Immediately he stammered out an apology, trying to explain that he didn't know what he was doing, and feeling like a complete idiot the entire time. But as he stumbled over his words, Jessica must have seen the stricken look on his face because she quickly grinned and grabbed the gifts from him, and hushed him with a kiss and told him how much she loved them.

Now, he once again had no idea what he was doing, had no idea how to tell her he loved her. Maybe Jessica would appreciate this attempt like she had before. Wherever she was.

As he bent down to place the flowers on her grave, he had the sudden, quick flash of a hand shooting up through the dirt. It was so vivid and clear, it made him cry out and drop the teddy bear.

Blinking furiously, he tried to shake the image from his mind, but he found himself checking anyway. The ground, of course, remained undisturbed, covered in grass that had grown in since they had buried her.

A deep feeling of despair overcame him. Feeling cold and numb, Sam let himself fall to his knees in front of her stone. There he sat, staring at the small portrait of his first and only love. Tears stung his eyes, but didn't fall.

He should have been here sooner. He owed her more than that. Did she miss him? Was she disappointed in him, in the way he handled losing her?

_What would I do without you?_

_Mm, crash and burn._

He should have gotten home sooner. He should have been there with her.

And now Jessica was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He felt like pounding something, just to keep himself from crying. He wanted anger to replace that suffocating sadness. But there was no one to blame for her death. So instead, he stayed there where he was, tracing the oval of Jessica's picture until his eyes became unfocused and his mind went blank.

ooOOoo

Life had a funny way of rushing by even when it seemed to stand still. Sam did nothing but work and study, and yet before he knew it, finals were approaching.

He surrounded himself with his notes and books, and even when he didn't have them within reach, they filled his thoughts. That was one advantage of his job – he only needed half of his mind to function, which freed the other half to go over everything he needed to study.

So he spent entire days focused solely on school, thinking of nothing else but his professors' lectures and textbook readings. He worked out the different ways each topic related to each other, he made lists upon lists of similarities and differences for the inevitable compare and contrast questions, and he even tried to memorize dates, just in case. When he had free time, he spent it at a quiet corner in the library or locked up inside his bedroom. Studying forced thoughts of Jessica out of his mind, and gave him excuses to stay in rather than go out with Rebecca and her friends.

The last day of official classes ended with little fanfare, and Sam barely noticed, his mind was so consumed. He hadn't even walked out the door of his last class and his thoughts were already focused on the upcoming finals. He was eager to get back to the apartment where he could bunker down and study.

Which was why it so strange that, as he passed the greens opposite his classroom building, something pulled him from his thoughts, and for the first time that week, he actually got distracted. It shouldn't have been possible, not even during that short time between school and studying.

Yet, even as he was running possible essay questions through his mind, he glanced to his right to the figure that was sitting at the bench. For some reason, it had caught his eye, and he couldn't help but turn.

It was a man a couple of years older than himself, with sandy hair cropped shorter than the typical Stanford student and a hard, angular face. With a start, he realized he recognized him, but it took him a moment to figure out why. When he finally remembered him from the grocery store, he wondered why he could recall something so insignificant from so long ago.

The man wasn't looking at him. In fact, he didn't seem to be doing much of anything. Just sitting there, gazing across street. His posture suggested he belonged there, a confident stiffness to his spine, but his demeanor suggested the opposite. He had a small cut on his cheek, Sam noticed, and a bruise along his temple.

It really wasn't anything out of the ordinary, this guy sitting on a park bench, so Sam peeled his gaze away and continued down the sidewalk. But suddenly he couldn't concentrate on anything else.

ooOOoo

After that first sighting in the park, Sam spotted the man several times around town over the next week. Once, on his way to grab lunch, he saw him walking past on the sidewalk outside his apartment building. Another time, he found him tucked away in a corner at the library. He was reading some book with folklore inits title, his body casually stretched out in a cushioned armchair. He seemed oblivious to how much he contrasted with the students who were bent at hard angles over books spread across table tops.

The mystery of the stranger gave Sam just enough of a distraction that his mind didn't implode from studying. In the midst of going over theories in his mind, he would pause to think of possible scenarios to explain the guy who didn't fit. His wild hypothesizing ran from a private investigator tracking someone down, to a spurned lover stalking an ex-girlfriend, all the way down to a Rudy-like guy whoobsessed over making it to college. Of course, the reasonable side of his mind figured he was merely seeing a regular around town. It just so happened he noticed this one guy more than all the other strangers he's come across.

The last time he saw him, the man was leaning against a tree, gazing at the college building just as Sam arrived to take his first final. Just as Sam was about to go inside, he glanced over his shoulder and caught the man's eyes trained on his back.

ooOOoo

Right after he finished his last final, Sam didn't get very far. He had only made it halfway down the hall when it hit him that, for now, he had no more school. The upcoming month suddenly loomed ahead of him in a yawning void, one heto his deep disturbancehadn't noticed until then. And after that, only one semester remained before he was forced to continue his life.

The realization shoved him down onto a bench that lined the side of the hallway. For a moment he was frozen. Then, with a shake, he stretched his legs in front of him and let his head hang back until it came to rest against the wall. Letting his eyes slip close, he tried his hardest not to think.

Several minutes later, he heard a couple more students file out from the classroom. "Hey, Sam!" one of them greeted. Sam recognized the voice of Amanda, a girl he knew only casually from class.

Sam quickly opened his eyes and saw her and Oliver walking towards him. "Hi, guys. How'd you do?"

"Alright, I guess," Amanda replied brightly. Oliver nodded and shrugged at the same time. "I'm just glad it's over!" she went on, dropping next to Sam on the bench.

"Ugh, yes," Oliver agreed. Sam cracked a polite smile, even though he didn't agree.

"Thank _God,_" Amanda added, her back slumping against the wall. "So are you guys staying here or going home for the holidays?"

"Home," replied Oliver with a sigh.

"This is my home," Sam said.

Amanda rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Well okay then, are you _staying_ _home_," she corrected with emphasis,"or going somewhere?"

"I'm staying."

"I wish I were," Oliver added. "As soon as I get back, my mom's dragging all of us across the state to visit my aunt. I'd much rather be here, but she's too good with the guilt trip."

"Really? I can't wait to go home," Amanda said. "I know it's kinda silly, but it'll be good to see everyone again. Plus I won't have to rely on my own cooking! 'Cause I suck," she added in a conspiratory whisper. Then she swiveled around to face Sam, tilting her head. "Won't you miss your family on Christmas?"

Sam stared at her, and he felt his eyebrow twitch.

She grew flustered when he didn't answer right away, a blush coloring her face. "I'm sorry, I know that was a personal question, I didn't mean—"

Oliver stepped in, mercifully stopping her ramblings. "Sam doesn't talk about his family," he explained. Sam looked up at him sharply. "I don't think they're on friendly terms."

Sam ducked his head, his mind reeling. His family...

_Oh, God..._

Since that day he had woken up in the Warrens' apartment, he had not thought of his family, not even once. He never even considered them.

The tile floor swam in front of his eyes.

He could not remember his family.

His entire childhood--everything up to the day he started college--was a complete blank. He suddenly realized he didn't just lose eight months, he lost an entire part of his life.

Even worse, he hadn't even _noticed_.

He tried to figure out how the hell that could havehappened. His only memories were of his life at Stanford, and his thoughts had never drifted past that. And now that it finally, _finally_ occurred to him that he would have a family, a past, it only made him realize just how much he had lost. It was like a light switch had been flicked on, but it revealed an empty room.

Amanda mumbled a worried apology and Oliver quickly changed the subject to his aunt. Sam distantly heard them through the blood rushing in his ears.

He tried to grasp onto something, any scrap of memory, but though he could remember the past three years clearly, everything before then was gone. Wiped out. His life had been reduced to his college existence – and he didn't. even. notice. Even when all of his friends talked about their own families and hometowns, he realized his mind had always shied away from the subject. It took a direct question for Sam to even think about his.

How could he have forgotten?

_What the HELL is wrong with me?_

Sam finally looked up at Oliver. He'd known him since his sophomore year, when the freshman had been given the dorm room next to his. "Have I ever mentioned my family to you?" he asked him, trying to keep his voice steady, unaffected.

"No, man, nothing. You always avoid referring to them," Oliver told him. He raised his eyebrows curiously, almost eagerly. "Are they really that bad?"

"Um...It's been a long time since I've seen them," Sam stammered, his mind racing. Were they that bad? He blinked hard, furiously, desperately needing to get away.

"Ah," Oliver replied. Sam ran a hand through his hair, and realized he was shaking. He bit down on his cheek and shoved his trembling hands into his lap, hoping the other two wouldn't see.

And then Oliver cocked his head. "What about the guy sitting next to you at the funeral? I kinda assumed he was your brother."

"What?" Sam gasped. He straightened at the thought, his heart jumping into his throat. But as his mind leapt to that memory, he frowned and slowly shook his head. "No," he replied, hoping they didn't hear the dejection in his voice.

He remember the funeral, vividly. It was one of the very few pieces he had from that week. Of course, he remembered it as he saw it, through a daze that had clouded his mind following her death, but the memory was there. He had been seated in between an older woman and a young man, neither of whom he'd paid much attention to. He remembered the former as a shapeless, faceless woman with a squeaky sob, and the man as a vague form beside him, fidgety but silent. He could remember the entire funeral, every long minute of it, and he knew he spoke to neither of them.

The man had clapped a hand to Sam's shoulder at one point, but it was a quick, awkward move. Too awkward to have been anyone he knew very well.

"It might have been Jessica's cousin," he said. "But it wasn't my brother."

ooOOoo

"Zach," Sam said. He waited until the other man looked up from the newspaper.

"Yeah?" Zach asked, and Sam took that cue to walk in from the kitchen doorway.

"I don't remember my family."

Zach gave a little jerk. "Oh."

Sam raised his eyebrows at his simple response, and he came forward, taking a seat at the table. "Yeah. Do...Do you know anything about them?"

"You never really talked about them," Zach replied after clearing his throat. Sam noticed he didn't exactly answer his question. "Um, maybe you should ask Rebecca," Zach added when he pressed him.

"Yeah, I will, when she gets home," Sam replied. "But...You have to know something about them."

Zach looked at him then, making sure their eyes met. "Sam. In the three years we've been in school together, you never mentioned them once."

His heart sinking, Sam leaned forward, not ready to give up. "Can't you tell me anything?" But the older Warren shook his head, breaking eye contact.

"No, Sam, I'm sorry."

Sam's reaction was instant. "But I don't even know who I am!" he cried. Zach flinched at his outburst, and Sam immediately regretted it. He had meant to keep that thought private, meant to keep it shoved down where he couldn't feel it.

They fell into silence, and after a moment, Zach shifted in his seat. "Look, Sam...They've always been a taboo subject for you, and now your mind wiped their memory away. Maybe—maybe it's best that you forgot."

"My own family?"

Zach sighed. "I know. I just...I don't know what to tell you. I don't think I should be the one to--to get involved."

Sam narrowed his eyes, suddenly positive that Zach knew more than he let on. "What do you mean?" But Zach only shook his head and went back to reading the paper. When Sam pressed him, he flatly ignored his questions.

Rebecca wasn't any better. In fact, when he cornered her, she appeared just as uncomfortable – as nervous, Sam suddenly realized – as Zach.

"I don't want you to get hurt," was all she would tell him.

* * *

Every single review appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry for the delay! I've been sitting on these next few chapters because I wanted to flesh them out some, smooth out the rough spots. But I realized I'm such a procrastinator that if I did that, I'd never post them. So I'm going ahead with them, with the idea I'll revise them later (ha, right!).

* * *

Zach and Rebecca invited him along with them to visit their parents over the holidays, but he declined. He didn't feel comfortable spending Christmas as an outsider, and he had no desire to leave his sanctuary of familiar comfortto go to St. Louis. 

More importantly, though, he had a new mission, one that he kept from the Warrens, one that already occupied all of his thoughts and all of his free time.

He was going to look for his family.

Suddenly he had a reason to look forward to the holidays - it gave him a month's worth of free time, and he planned on devoting all of it on his newfound pursuit. Once again, the library had become a haven for him. Because of the holidays, hours were shorter, but the library was also less crowded. Every day he went, hunting for a free computer tucked away in a corner where he could find the most privacy. There he tackled their online newspaper database, typing and clicking through search after search.

The work kept him busy, kept him from dwelling too much. But more than that, it gave him hope.

He knew he shouldn't put too much on that glimpse of hope. In the dull moments while he waited for web pages to load, he thought about the missing family who hadn't contacted him. Not since he woke up, and as far as he knew, not since he'd come to Stanford. He could remember all the holidays, remembered which ones he spent on campus and which ones with Jessica's family. There wasn't a single holiday missing from his memory from those three years. He hadn't even gone home for the summer.

But still, he had that hope. Hope that there was a good explanation. Hope they were still out there. Hope they would offer him something he was missing.

And that hope forced his guilt away.

And so he searched, even though he knew he was setting himself up for disappointment. Every hit from the search engine offered him a piece of hope, even though he knew few of them – if any – related to him in any way.

Unfortunately, Winchester was a common name that produced near a million results, and he didn't have a starting point to whittle them down. Or maybe that was fortunate – at least it would take a while before his hope would be extinguished.

He didn't even know where he was from. According to his student profile, the address he had put on his application was an apartment in Brisbane, Missouri. But when a search for Winchesters in Brisbane and the surrounding area pulled up nothing, he could only hope that had only been a temporary homeand thathis family and that they would show up elsewhere.

So he waded through article after article of every Winchester who had ever made the papers, unsure whether any one of them held a connection to him or not. After a while, he decided to start with his own name, hoping that would narrow the results.

It did, but the results still numbered high in thousands. To make matter worse, Sam couldn't use his name as an exact phrase because that would exclude entries such as "John and Mary Winchester gave birth to a baby boy, Sam." And that was exactly the kind of entry he was hoping to find - knowing his parents' names would be a great start. But performing such a search meant Sam had to wade through numerous articles in which "Sam" and "Winchester" were both mentioned, many times unconnected. That was in addition to all the ones about Sam Winchesters who weren't him.

Sam would spend hours at the library and still would go home each day no closer to finding his family than he had been. And he would be back the very next day, picking up where he left off.

ooOOoo

The holidays quicklypassed andclasses started again. Sam knew he didn't need to focus as hard on schoolwork, now that the end was in sight. But he did anyway. He was afraid of what would happen to his mind if he didn't. He continued scoring high grades, and he soaked up everything the professors threw at him until his mind had little room for anything else.

A few weeks into the semester, he received his acceptance into Stanford Law,where hewas awarded a full scholarship. He put it aside, slipping it into his desk drawer.

The occasional nights out with Rebecca's friends continued, and he grew to know them as well as he had anyone other than Jessica and the Warrens. Yet Samkept referring tothem, even Oliver, as Rebecca's friends. He figured that was a good indication he wasn't adjusting all that well to life without Jessica, but he didn't mind. He had good times with them,but he was happy with the distance he kept from them. For him, it was the perfect balance.

Matilda eventually started to hit on him. As far as group dynamics went, it was almost inevitable. But she backed off when it became clear she wasn't make any progress.

Over the semester, he saw the strange man two more times, once at the grocery store again, buying beer and snacks, and another in a parking lot downtown. The sightings were only two days apart, after eight or nine weeks of nothing. After those two times, he didn't see him again in the weeks that followed. The coincidence struck him as a little strange, but only in passing.

He had more important things to think about.

Even with classes and his job, Sam still found time to continue his search for his family. In fact, he squeezed as much time as he could, stopping in even when he only had a short break between classes. He was at the library so often, the librarians had taken to calling him by name.

One had even tried to flirt with him. But, like Matilda, she soon gave up.

Every day, Sam weeded through article after article. His eyes ached from the strain, but he never grew tired of looking. Each article he looked at, he wondered if he were reading about a relative of his. He told himself, somewhat wryly, that by the time he finished, he could write an entire book on the Winchesters of America.

That, of course, lead to the frightening thought that he might be from another country. But he wasn't even going to worry about that possibility yet.

Then, at the end of February, he found a twenty-three-year-old article from Kansas.

It wasn't a birth announcement, like he had counted on. In fact, this one gave him more information than a birth announcement ever would. He wished he had found the announcement instead.

_House Fire Claims Life of Wife, Mother_.

Sam read the story with a growing sickening feeling in his stomach. There was a strange sort of detachment too, as if he were reading about strangers, even though he knew this time he wasn't. That detachment made him even more ill.

On November 2, 1983, Mary Winchester, 30, lost her life in a fire. Investigators were unable to determine the cause of the blaze, which quickly destroyed the bedroom where it started, killing Mary almost instantly. She left behind her husband John, and their two kids, Dean, 4, and Sam, 6 months.

Sam sat back in his chair, letting out a long breath. His mother was killed in a fire. The thought made him nauseas, and the date sent a cold shudder through him.

Just like Jessica.

Was that why he lost it?

Another, more frustrating side to his discovery was that Sam had hoped that, once he found his family's names, it would open a floodgate of memories. Yet that part of his mind remained closed off to him.

Sam tried not to think about his discovery. He briefly wondered if this was the reason the Warrens tried to discourage his search.

He didn't even know if this was the right family. _His _family. But the coincidences were too great. It was all he had to go on.

ooOOoo

Sam went to bed that night dwelling on a fire that happened twenty-three years ago. When he woke up the next morning, he was sweating from thoughts of another fire.

He found Rebecca on the couch, reading a textbook. She looked up at his entrance and smiled. "G'morning, Sam," she told him cheerfully.

"Morning," he returned with a smile. "Hey, uh..." He debated telling her about his latest nightmare, especially since it had been so long since his last non-Jessica one, but once again, he felt a strong urge to share it with someone.

Fortunately, she seemed to read his mind. "Another nightmare?" she asked, suddenly straightening. He nodded, and she immediately grabbed a pad and paper and led him to the table.

"Well, give it to me," she told him as they took a seat, and he could tell she was trying to keep her voice bright for his sake.

"Okay. Well." He cleared his throat, which still had a little bit of morning phlegm. "This one was like that werewolf one, at least in that I wasn't actually there. But this time it was a ghost."

"A ghost?" Rebecca repeated, writing on her pad.

"Heh, yeah, I know. It was the ghost of a teenaged girl. She was on a bridge just outside of Boston – I could see the skyline of the city in the background." He briefly wondered if he had even been to Boston. Somehow he had recognized the skyline, but he wasn't sure if he had seen it personally, or in photographs. "It must have been St. Patrick's Day, because there was this small group of people all dressed in green. One of the girls had a shamrock headband and a guy had a 'Kiss Me, I'm Irish' shirt on." As he related his nightmare, Rebecca wrote furiously, listing all the details he gave her.

Sam tried to detach himself from his words as he continued. "The ghost just...appears in front of them suddenly. The people, four of them, stop in their tracks, and this, this ghost raises her arm at them." Sam demonstrated with his own arm. "And she points. And in the next instant, the four of them burst into flames."

Rebecca, her face now pale, continued to record the information. "Did...did they die?" she asked.

Sam nodded. Even now, he could see their faces screaming with pain, could see how their skin blistered and melted. He refused to say that out loud.

Rebecca quickly composed herself. "All right, so we have the ghost of a teenaged girl, a Boston bridge, St. Patrick's Day, a group of four partiers, including a girl with a shamrock headband and a guy with a 'Kiss Me, I'm Irish' shirt, and um, fire."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"What did the bridge look like? Was it a footbridge?"

"No, it had both cars and a pedestrian walk. I think it was kinda old. Not one of those modern-looking ones, at least." Rebecca nodded as she made a note. "So, see anything at can help me?" he asked her. "Anything that explains why my mind is so screwed up and twisted?"

Rebecca looked up at him sharply. "You're not screwed up," she told him seriously.

Sam snorted. "Whatever."

"You're _not_," she insisted, her eyes going wide. "There's a reason your mind is giving you these dreams."

Sam almost mentioned that he had been thinking of fire the entire day before...but hewasn't ready forRebecca to confirm that the family in that article really was his. Not yet.

"Look, we just need to interpret what your mind is trying to tell you."

"Yeah, it's telling me I have a fetish for the supernatural," he snorted derisively.

She gave him a long, silent look that made him shift in his seat. "Maybe you do."

Sam drew his eyebrows together. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Then a sigh. "I don't know."

Sam had no idea how he was supposed to respond to that. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. "Any idea why I'm dreaming about strangers?" Rebecca shook her head in reply. "They say you only dream of people you've seen before. I wonder if these are people I met while...I was gone," he mused out loud.

"Maybe," Rebecca said, although it sounded as if she didn't think so. They sat in silence for a few moments before she stood up, clearing her throat. "Well, I better get ready. Don't want to be late."

Sam looked up at her, surprised. "I thought you didn't have class until 11."

"Right, but I gotta run some errands first," she replied just as she ducked out of the kitchen.

Sam stared after her as she made her retreat. After being so compelled to tell her his dream, he couldn't help but feel lost. Images of people bursting into flames still haunted him.

ooOOoo

Fifteen minutes later, Rebecca emerged from the bathroom. She rushed past Sam, who had migrated to the couch in effort to kill time before his own classes started. "Need anything from the store?" she asked over her shoulder as she headed for the door.

"No thanks," he called back. Working five days a week at a grocery story meant his supplies were pretty well stocked.

As soon as she was out the door, his stomach growled, and he decided to grab a bowl of cereal. He was just about to pour when he saw Rebecca's purse sitting on the counter. He didn't know if she needed it, but if he hurried, he should be able to catch her just in case she did.

He slipped out the door, the purse clutched in his hand. To his surprise, Rebecca hadn't gone very far at all. In fact, she was leaning against the side of the apartment building, her back turned to him at an angle. A cell phone was pressed against her ear.

Sam debated whether he should interrupt or wait. Rebecca's stance was a little tense, and he felt he should give her privacy. But at the same time, he couldn't stand there and not eavesdrop, and he might miss her if he went back inside.

He had just decided to tap her on the shoulder when his ears caught the tail end of her sentence.

"...Shamrock headband."

Sam froze in place, stunned, as a coldness washed over him. Then a flash of white caught his attention. His eyes drifted down, following the movement of her arm as she lowered it, and he saw that she was holding the list they had just made.

Suddenly he felt rage well inside him, and this time he didn't hesitate to tap her on the shoulder. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

"Sam!" Rebecca exclaimed, spinning around. She quickly snapped her cell phone closed.

"Who were you talking to?"

He had obviously put her off-balance. "Jim," she said after a reluctant pause. "Just Jim."

"Jim? But--" His eyes widened as he was struck witha sudden thought. "Wait, am I some sort of class project for him? Has he been analyzing my dreams like some Freud wannabe?"

"No! Well..." She paused to consider her answer. "Kinda. Yeah," she finally admitted, cringing.

Her sheepishness did nothing to mollify Sam. "Why are you two sneaking behind my back? Why didn't you just tell me?" he angrily demanded.

She bit her lip worriedly. "I thought...I didn't want you to take it the wrong way."

"You mean, you didn't want to tell me that I'm crazy?" Sam interjected. "A nutjob?"

Her eyes widened and a stricken look came to her face. "No! Sam--!" she started, reaching out to him.

He lifted a hand, pushing her arm aside. "No, Rebecca, stop it," he told her bitterly. "I don't want to hear it." With that, he spun around and stormed back inside, letting the door slam behind him.

* * *

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	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Midterms hit almost immediately after Sam found the article about the Kansas house fire, effectively putting his search on hold. Instead of being frustrated, Sam realized he was relieved more than anything. He was afraid of what else he would find out.

Rebecca apologized profusely the next time she saw him, and Sam figured he should forgive her. It was one of the disadvantages of living with someone who also happened to be one of your only two friends. He couldn't afford not to forgive her.

And after he decided that, he realized he truly _had _forgiven her. Even though he had felt betrayed, the reasoning behind it was harmless, aclass project, and Rebecca's intentions were good. At least by providing Jim with material, his dreams would be put to some use.

That matter was quickly forgotten. So once he put that along with his family search out of his mind, he had nothing to distract him from his studies.

Yet, after each class when he should have been immediately focusing on everything he learned, he found himself glancing at the park benches he passed on his way home.

Despite everything else, he couldn't help noticing the pattern of his life. Just like last time, he studied for his midterms, flew through the tests, and then celebrated afterwards with Rebecca and her friends at the bar.

He wondered what would happen once he graduated.

This time only differed from the last midterm celebration in the way they departed. Instead of leaving as a group, Oliver bade goodbye first, and then Matilda and a girl named Sadie. When Rebecca excused herself to the restroom, Sam found himself alone with Jim.

Sam finished off his beer before he forced up enough courage to speak to him. "Hey, Jim," he started, resting his forearms on the table. "Did you, uh..." He coughed and started again. "Becky mentioned that she's been telling you about my dreams. Did you ever-"

Jim cut him off. "What's that? She's never mentioned your dreams to me."

"_Oh_." Sam blinked, immediately feeling blood rush to his cheeks. If he hadn't been embarrassed enough before, he was now. "Huh."

"Are you sure she said it was me?" Jim went on.

"Um, no," Sam replied shortly, wanting to drop it as quickly as he could. "Sorry."

Jim leaned forward. "Did you want to talk to me about your dreams?" he asked gently.

"Oh, no," Sam quickly said. _God, no._ "Must have been a misunderstanding." He sat back and took a long sip from his empty beer bottle, his mind racing.

ooOOoo

Sam wanted to confront Rebecca, but he never did. The embarrassment was still too fresh. They were just dreams—he knew that—but the dreams had haunted him so much that he didn't even want to acknowledge them again. He didn't want to place any importance on them, lest he actually started to believe they were.

Fortunately, he could force that mystery into the backseat and focus on another pressing concern – his family.

Again.

After the midterms, he found himself with extra free time again, and after the two week break since he found out about his mother, his mood had changed drastically. Now he was impatient to find more about his family, and he itched to try his new leads.

He had names now, three of them – although he already knew where his mother ended up. The names echoed in his head and he ran his mind over them, even whispering them out loud when he was alone, just to hear how they sounded. _John, Mary, Dean_.

He needed to find them. He needed to know where he came from.

The fear was still there. He started to think, almost seriously, that his family may be cursed. Both his mother and his girlfriend had died young, tragically, and he was afraid the rest of his missing family met similar fates. But even if his father and brother were also now gone, he'd rather know that than wonder for the rest of his life.

If his father was alive, he'd be in his fifties now. His brother would be 27, maybe 28. Sam wondered what they were like, if they were like him in any way. He wondered if his brother was as tall as he was, or what kind of job his father had. He wondered if he would ever know.

Spring break gave him a week-long chance to search almost full-time. When he wasn't working at the supermarket, he was seated in front of a computer for as long as the library was open.

Unfortunately, he hit a brick wall right away. After the house fire, he couldn't find anything in the Kansas papers about the Winchesters, nor were they in the local phone books. He then did a nationwide search for John, Dean, Sam, and Winchester, but nothing came from that, either.

So he had to search individually, just as he had done with his own name.

He started with his brother, simply because his name was slightly less common than John. The results still numbered in the thousands though, and Sam knew he had another long search ahead of him.

ooOOoo

It occurred to him midway through spring break that he spent his time almost exclusively indoors, and the lack of sun and fresh air finally got to him. He gathered his things from the library – namely, a notebook and pen, to record any clues he found – and decided to walk downtown to a small cafe for lunch.

The walk was a little longer than his typical daily routes, but he felt good about that. The weather was mild and the sun was out, giving him the perfect opportunity to enjoy the outdoors. He took his time, taking detours through the various parks and campus greens. The sidewalks were mostly quiet and bare. Most students had left to celebrate spring break somewhere else, and Sam only encountered a handful of people along his way.

The cafe was also almost empty, for which Sam was grateful. He ordered a soup and sandwich, a bit of a splurge for him on his grocery store wages, but he felt the day called for a bit of indulgence.

_Yeah, whatever, Samantha._ He smirked to himself, taking comfort in his extra-large Coke.

After his finished his lunch, Sam wasn't quite ready to head back to the library. The strain from staring at the computer screen hadn't faded from his eyes yet. So instead, he decided to stroll around downtown, past the row of shops and cafes and unopened bars.

He hadn't planned on going into any of them, but when he passed an occult shop, his feet paused without him telling them to. It was a dark and frilly place called _Dragon's Mist, _a name written in gold Celtic lettering. Sam looked through the store's window, and his mind said there was no reason for him to go inside. Yet in the next instant he heard bells jangle as he pulled open the door and stepped inside.

Immediately, thick scents assaulted his nose, and his mind set about identifying and cataloguing each smell. Lavender, sandalwood, frankincense, dragon's blood, he recognized each one. He realized distantly that he probably shouldn't have.

He wandered the store, fingering the various supplies. He ignored the figurines of dragons and fairies, and he skipped the stand carrying homemade lotions and bathing products. Instead, he ran down the labels on the cabinets holding herbs, and he picked up candles designed for rituals and protection, and he studied the various weapons, mostly swords and knives, hanging along the walls.

He was thumbing through a dictionary of supernatural creatures and occurrences when the shopkeeper, a thin, older woman whose hair was larger than body, approached him. "Is there anything I can help you with?" she asked, and her voice - though courteous - held a hint of suspicion.

Sam closed the book and looked at her. An immediate change came over the woman and her demeanor lost the hesitant politeness. Her eyebrows shut up into her forehead and she held up a hand. "Whoa," she stammered.

Sam frowned. "Pardon me?"

"Wow..." she whispered, shaking her head. "Something...is wrong."

"No, actually, I'm fine," he replied, somewhat irritably. "Thank you, though."

"No, no...I feel there's a part of your mind that's off-balanced."

Sam had to hold back a sigh. Maybe it had been a mistake to come in here. "Yeah, I guess," he replied with an exasperated shrug. "Stress and all that." School. Mental breakdown. Lost memories.

"Hm, yes, I suppose you could say that," she replied, sounding distracted as she studied him. Her shoulders suddenly twitched. "You have some ability, don't you?"

"Ability," he echoed dully.

"Yes!" she said with more confidence, taking a step closer. "You have some powerful psychic ability, I can feel it."

"Do I?" Sam glanced around the store, wondering which of the merchandise she would try to sell to him.

"You do. You really do. You..." She leveled her gaze at him. "You could do a lot of good with it."

Sam remained silent for a moment. "Look, I think I'm all set," he told her, picking up one of the protection candles he had looked at. "I'll just get this for now. All right?" He hadn't meant to purchase it, but he would if it helped him get out of the store.

She nodded mutely and led him back to the counter where the register sat. As she typed in the price, she looked at him again. "You'll be back, won't you? I'd really hate for your power to go to waste."

"Yeah, sure," Sam replied.

"No, I'm serious," she insisted. "You really have something, and you need to harness it, put it to good use." She wrapped the candle in brown paper and set it inside a bag. "Please, promise me you'll at least think about it. Seriously think about it." She stared at him as she handed him the bag. Sam agreed, eager to escape her gaze.

He didn't pay her words any heed while she was spouting them, but when he stepped back out into the sunshine, he was overcome with dizziness.

In the four years he spent at Stanford, he had never once stepped inside _Dragon's Mist_.

But now that he looked back, he wondered if he had been actively avoiding it.

ooOOoo

Thoughts of blades and magical herbs were quickly forgotten, replaced with more practical matters when spring break ended and classes started up again. It marked the beginning of the last half of his final semester as an undergraduate.

Sam tried not to think about that.

His fellow seniors seemed to buzz around him, exuding energy and excitement that Sam didn't feel. Rebecca somehow sensed that, and she kept any impatience she felt towards graduation to herself, wordlessly offering Sam support.

Zach, on the other hand, didn't keep quiet. Instead, he took him out for drinks again, bought several rounds of shots, and commiserated with him. After all, Zach still hadn't looked for a better, higher-paying, permanent job. He understood Sam's reluctance.

He had another strange dream at the end of the week, though it wasn't a nightmare. All that he recalled was Zach telling him he didn't want Sam to waste his life. Or lose it. Sam couldn't really remember which. Sam told him to stop being such a pain in the ass.

Rebecca wasn't up yet when he stumbled into the kitchen. That didn't matter though, because he didn't plan on telling her any more of his dreams. He may have forgiven her, but he hadn't forgotten the feeling of betrayal. More importantly, he didn't like exposing himself like that, especially for no good reason.

Even as he was thinking that, he caught sight of her purse sitting on the counter.

Sam froze, suddenly feeling very devious.

He told himself, if it wasn't in there, he won't look for it again. So with that thought, and one last glance towards Rebecca's closed door, he snuck up to her purse as if it were a trap of some kind. It certainly lured him like one.

Trying to be as quiet as he could – not only so he wouldn't wake anyone up, but also so he could hear if someone did – he started to rummage through her purse. He ignored her, _ahem_, more feminine items, and he couldn't help but feel guilty as he looked through her personal things.

But then his hand closed around the small, hard object, and he immediately forgot any dirty feelings.

Rebecca's cell phone was a different model than his, so it took him a few, too-long moments to figure it out. But eventually he made it to her memory list. He scrolled through the log of calls she had made, almost certain that the call he was looking for would have been erased already.

Then he found it. February 28, 8:15 am. The number didn't have a name attached to it, and it wasn't one he recognized, especially with an out-of-town area code. He suddenly felt confused and angry. Who could Rebecca have called to discuss Sam's personal matters?

Sam stared at it, debating for a good five minutes. He was lucky no one came out during that time. Of course, it was only 6:30, he realized with a start, and both Rebecca and Zach slept in on Saturdays until at least 9.

With a sudden rush of energy, Sam pressed the dial button. His hand almost shook from adrenaline as he lifted the phone to his ear. For a moment, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to hear over the rushing of blood in his ears.

It rang three time.

"Rebecca? What is it?" The voice that answered was rough but alert.

Sam didn't reply right away, suddenly unsure of himself. "This isn't Rebecca. I'm Sam."

"Sammy?" the voice stammered, startled.

"Sam," he corrected. "It's just Sam. Who's _this_?"

"Wh—uh..." The man coughed, but Sam could tell it was only an attempt to stall. "What...Why'd you call me?"

"Who are you?" Sam tried again, ignoring his deflection.

There was another long pause, and Sam waited impatiently. "I'm just a friend," he finally heard. He sounded almost resigned, which only frustrated Sam. Why didn't he just tell him who he was instead of dragging it out?

He was starting to regret ever making the call and decided to get to the point. "Look. I know Rebecca has been calling you, for whatever reason." Sam took a deep breath. He wasn't used to being forceful, but he managed to keep his voice stern. "And I'd appreciate it if you two didn't talk about me and my personal matters behind my back. Whoever you are, it's none of your damn business."

"But, no, Sammy, it's not—"

He cut him off. "I told you, it's just Sam." Sam hesitated a second longer, and then snapped the cell phone shut. For some reason, his heart was pounding.

Drawing in a long breath to calm his nerves, he tried to convince himself it was no big deal. Whatever had just happened, it wasn't a big deal.

Out of curiosity, just to get his mind of that gruff voice, he scrolled through Rebecca's call list, keeping his eyes trained for the same number. He only found it on the list one other time. Rebecca had called the number again two hours after Sam had caught her. A surge of betrayal and anger flooded deep his chest. Even after he yelled at her, she had to nerve to call again, that very same day.

Strangely, that day was the only day she had contacted the man on the other end of that number, at least in recent memory. Sam was tempted to call right back and demand an explanation.

Instead, he slipped the phone back into her purse and then slumped against the counter.

Ever since he had woken up in the Warrens' apartment last summer, his whole life seemed to be surrounded by a thick fog, and everything he needed was hidden from him. And after all of his searching, all the questions he asked, he didn't feel any closer to uncovering those answers.

* * *

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	7. Chapter 7

Three weeks later, he found an article on Dean Winchester, 26.

He had gone to the library after his last class on Thursday, getting there around five in the afternoon. He was only going to spend an hour there before he went home for dinner, but once he started going through the search results, he had a hard time resisting the temptation _just one more._ There was always one more.

He skimmed an announcement about a Dean Winchester graduating with honors from Cornell University, but he had been 22 in 1998. Another Dean Winchester married a Brittany Hanby in Youngstown, OH, but his parents' names were Thomas and Jane. Then there was Dean Winchester, a 73-year-old fireman. Definitely not his brother.

Sam had gotten so used to clicking on link after link, he hadn't even read the headline as he clicked on the 35th search result. So when the article popped up in full view, the bold, black letters slammed intoSam without warning. It drove the air from the lungs, and at the same time he gasped, his breath caught in his throat, leaving him choking.

_Murder Suspect Slain in Victim's Home._

As Sam read those words, the world rushed away from him with sickening speed.

Dean Winchester, 26, had been fatally shot in the home of a woman he had kidnapped and almost killed. The police found evidence implicating him in the death of another woman, Emily Norton, a discovery that released her boyfriend, a suspect who had been wrongly charged with her murder.

Sam knew that even though the age fit, that didn't necessarily prove that the Dean Winchester in the article was his brother. The name of his victims, however, removed all doubt.

Sam's brother had killed Zach's girlfriend. He almost killed Rebecca.

Now he knew who his brother was.

Sam raced to the restroom and threw up.

ooOOoo

He didn't know how he made it home. He certainly didn't remember getting there. He was aware of being at the library one moment, and then he was sitting on his bed back at the apartment.

Everything made sense now, in a revolting, nauseating way. He now knew why his family never contacted him, he now knew why he never talked about his family, he now knew why the Warrens discouraged his search.

His thoughts were racing, and Sam had to take a moment to sort it out, to figure out what it all meant.

Sam's brother had been a sick, twisted, horrible man.

Sam's brother had been a sick, twisted, horrible man who, within weeks of Jessica's death, had tortured and killed the girlfriend of Sam's best friend, a murder for which Zach had been blamed. Then he had gone after Rebecca, another of Sam's close friends, tied her to a chair, and would have tortured and killed her as well if the police hadn't arrived in time.

Sam hadn't even known Rebecca had been—well, involved was an understatement. It disturbed him that he could only remember Zach's half of the horrible situation, which was tragic enough for any family. Yet Rebecca had gone through something nearly as traumatic, and definitely more terrifying, and Sam couldn't even remember that.

As if that weren't enough, he also had to accept that his brother was dead – and that that was a good thing. All those things he had wondered about his brother – what he looked like, what kind of man he was, his talents and flaws, his likes and dislikes – none of that mattered now. Sam couldn't care about that anymore.

Sam's world was whirling, and he almost wished he hadn't tried to search through the fog. His mother died in a fire when he was a baby. Jessica, the only girl he had ever loved, was killed in a fire. And now he knew his brother, a murderer, was dead. After all that, Sam didn't think he could handle discovering his father's fate.

He was truly alone.

The only two people he had left in the world...Oh, God. Did he even have _them_, his surrogate family, anymore? How could they accept him after that?

He tried to take some comfort that the Warrens didn't seem to blame him.

No, instead they offered him shelter and care when Sam – out of the three of them, _Sam_ – suffered a nervous breakdown.

Sam would have thrown up again, but there wasn't anything left in his stomach.

How could they even face him, after what his brother did to them?

Sam had known Rebecca and Zach were keeping something from him, and now he realized they were shielding him. The sympathetic looks they shot him whenever someone brought up family, their discouragement of his search - it made sense now.

He couldn't believe how much they had done for him.

And Zach was right. His mind had erased all memory of his family for a reason. Sam now wished he had never learned what that reason was.

ooOOoo

Sam mentioned that maybe it was time for him to move out, find his own place. "Haven't I overstayed my welcome?" he asked with a friendly smirk, hoping to hide behind forced levity.

But Rebecca and Zach refused to let him leave. He was their roommate now, they insisted. There was no reason for him to go, and every reason for him to stay. When he could afford to live on his own, then he could leave if he truly wanted to, but for as long as he needed to share an apartment, he was going to share with them. He was family.

Sam was relieved to hear that because he really wasn't ready for a change, wasn't ready to leave them, and couldn't afford much more than the low rent he paid them. But was he really family, though? That didn't seem to be the right word.

Sam was too much of a coward to tell them he knew about his brother. He didn't want their relationship, as unusual as it was, to change. The bond between them wasn't so strong that Sam thought they could survive the discomfort – and wasn't that an extremely inadequate word? – that would come from telling.

But even so, Sam couldn't stop himself from picking at the issue. He didn't want to know anything about his brother, yet he was compelled to find out more.

"The guy who, uh, caught your girlfriend's killer," Sam began one day, when he found himself in the living room with Zach. "What happened? Who was he?"

Zach looked at him sharply, and Sam couldn't blame him for his surprise. The question had popped out of his mouth with no warning. Sam waited patiently while he tried to come up with an answer, knowing he was figuring a way to keep key details – namely, Sam's brother - out.

"He, um...Well, I wasn't there. I just heard about it." Zach cleared his throat. "I guess he was some kind of bounty hunter, and he tracked him down. But when he caught him, the-the guy was trying to strangle someone, and so the bounty hunter was forced to shoot him.

"He got there, just in time, Sam." Zach gave him a half smile."Pretty much a hero, you know?"

Sam nodded and fell silent.

Zach had just praised the man who killed his brother. Sam would too, but it still made him uncomfortable. He also noticed how Zach was careful not to mention the bounty hunter's name. That upset him - it wasn't like Sam would try to track the guy down in some sort of twisted revenge.

His mouth started moving again before Sam could stop it. "The guy...tried to kill someone else?" he found himself asking. "Who?" He didn't mean to ask the first question, but he instantly regretted asking that second. Now that he had, he wondered if Zach would actually tell him that it was his sister.

But Zach's answer surprised him. "A close friend of mine," he replied after a long moment. "A friend who was looking for my sister, to protect her from him. He found the killer instead - but instead of running, he tried to fight him, and he held him off until help arrived."

"Oh." Sam frowned, thrown off-guard by the story. So there were at least _three_ people Dean attacked. Questions ran through his mind, and he tried to focus on one – and if he wanted to keep up pretenses, he knew which one he needed to ask. "The killer went after your sister?"

"Yeah," Zach replied, his voice suddenly uneven. "Dammit, yeah. He even had her, tied up and everything, just like..." He stopped himself for a moment and then continued. "The cops found her in time, thank God, but the guy escaped." He drew in a shaky breath and looked away. "I was stuck in jail, so I...I couldn't protect her. This guy was out there running around, and I couldn't do anything."

Sam didn't know how to respond to that. "But he was stopped," he said.

"Yeah. He was. If...God, those two guys saved us in more ways than one."

Sam shook his head, trying to comprehend it all. "How did you even get through that?"

"You pretty much have to."

Sam nodded in understanding. He knew that feeling.

For a brief moment, Sam wondered if he was that close friend who went looking for Rebecca. In his gut, he kinda wished he had been – even if it meant his own brother had tried to kill him. He didn't remember ever being in St. Louis, but he couldn't remember being _anywhere_, so it wasn't out of the question.

But he knew he wasn't the fighting type. He wouldn't even know how to.

"Why...why do you ask?" Zach asked after a minute. "About all this?"

Sam thought furiously to explain. "I remembered that you said a man had saved your life. I was just curious how he did that."

But Zach wasn't satisfied with his answer. "Why were you curious?" he pressed.

Sam shrugged and looked away. "I don't know. Something about saving lives—it just sounds...noble."

Zach was silent for a moment. "Like something you'd like to do?" he then asked him.

Startled, Sam turned to him with a frown. It was an odd question. He opened his mouth to respond, but he didn't know what to say. After a moment, Zach let out an almost-soundless sigh and turned back to the TV.

ooOOoo

As the school year spiraled towards the end, Sam went on autopilot. Like always, he studied long and hard, and he tackled his final papers with even more—well, not enthusiasm, but maybe devotion—than he had with his previous assignments.

This time, though, he only went to the library when he absolutely needed to. Now he did all of his studying and writing at home, restricting the library to research only, and even then, only when the internet from his laptop wasn't enough.

Sam couldn't remember studying or reading or writing. He would sit down at his desk around four in the afternoon, and the next thing he knew, it'd be ten o'clock, and he would have ten new pages of handwritten notes or three typed pages of his paper finished, on top of a mind full with memorized details.

Sam still hadn't accepted the full ride to law school.

At night, he had vague dreams of yielding shotguns as he stalked through dark, twisting halls, or of swinging swords against horrible, flesh-eating monsters. He would wake up to a few seconds of confused panic because he was alone and unarmed. Then would come faint tinges of unexplainable disappointment.

His supervisor at the grocery story, after praising his work ethic and efficiency, asked him why he still worked there. Sam didn't have an answer. To himself, he admitted he couldn't think of another job, or even career, he'd rather have.

But a lawyer – that was a good profession. A profession he could be proud of. A goal he would have earned. As a lawyer, he could reach his full potential, earn lots of money, be successful.

That's what he told himself, at least. That's what had driven him through those first three years of college and those thoughts still made logical sense.

"You're not happy, are you, Sam?" Rebecca asked him suddenly, a week before graduation.

"No. No, I'm not," Sam replied after a moment.

Rebecca nodded. "I'm sorry."

Sam's eyes widened, and guilt flooded his stomach. "No, Becky, you've done so much for me," he told her earnestly. "More than I'm sure I know."

She sighed and gave him a small smile. "Yeah," she said under her breath.

* * *

I'm not going to beg for reviews. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. 

Thank you all for reading! Don't worry, things are about to pick up (in a way...)


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry for dragging this fic out - I think I had too much fun writing it, and I don't seem to know the meaning of "edit." Thanks for sticking with this anyway!

* * *

Sam wished he paid more attention to his graduation. He knew, sitting in that folding chair, that this marked a very important milestone in his life. A proud moment, a lifelong memory. But still he drifted out during the speeches, still he shared only half-hearted grins with his classmates, still he bounced his leg, wishing it would just end. 

No one was up there in the stands, trying to pick his head out from the crowd. No one was there just for him.

Fortunately, when they started handing out the individual diplomas, 90 percent of the audience did as they were advised and held their applause until the end of the ceremony. Because of that, no one would know he didn't have anyone there to cheer for him, and even he could pretend. He'd never been so grateful for a procedural guidelines before.

Strangely, when his name was called, he thought he heard someone clapping, a hard, furious burst of solo applause. Then again, they went through the names so fast it could have been for the girl announced before him.

Afterwards, Sam went outside to wait for Rebecca and her family, who were at her college's graduation held in a separate building. When he finally met up with them again on the college green, Rebecca raced up to him and hugged him, and he warmly hugged her back. Then Zach shook his hand, but that also quickly turned into an strong embrace as he thumped him on the back. Standing back, Mr. and Mrs. Warren gave him their own congratulations, complete with wide, easy smiles. Sam thanked them and agreed to photograph their family with the camera they handed him. Then Mrs. Warren snapped his picture with Rebecca and Zach and promised him a copy.

They spent an hour hugging and shaking the hands of classmates and friends and relatives, and Sam was surrounded by laughter and happiness and noise. His face hurt after smiling so much and his shoulders hurt after holding them tense for an entire hour.

Afterwards, he left with the Warrens, climbing into the backseat of their car beside Rebecca, and they headed towards a local park, where Rebecca's parents had rented a pavilion for her graduation party. Rebecca, with Zach's help and against Sam's objections, had persuaded them into making it a dual party for her and Sam.

Their cook-out became a central gathering for many of her friends who stopped by with their families from out-of-town. It wasn't a fancy party by any means, held on picnic tables with plenty of cold beer and grilled hot dogs. The older Warrens could have afford more, and in fact had suggested just that - but Rebecca wanted to keep it simple.

A few people gathered in loose groups on the lawn, but most of them sat at the tables inside the open shelter. Sam, with a beer in his hand, stood at the edge where the concrete ground met grass.

He wasn't alone though. A steady stream of friends and acquaintances came up to him and exchanged congratulations and other pleasantries. In the past year, Sam had become a master of small talk, and he wasn't short on friendly conversation. And then there were those sisters and friends of friends who wanted a chance to talk with the deceptively-eligible, single guy. Sam smiled and nodded with them, toeing the line of flirting but never crossing over.

Mr. Warren had just left Sam after promising him a list of lawyer contacts when a figure caught the corner of his eye. Sam turned his head and saw a man standing at the edge of a grove of trees.

He stood there alone, unmoving. He seemed to be watching them.

Sam tore his gaze away and stared intensely at the ground in front of him. It was that guy again, the stranger from the grocery store, the one he kept seeing around town. And now he was there, watching their party from his position far away. Almost spying on them. Sam didn't know why he would be there, didn't know who he was watching.

So far he wasn't doing anything, and Sam tried to ignore him. Still, as Oliver came up to him to chat, Sam kept the figure in the corner of his eye, making sure he never lost sight of the stranger.

But the man never moved.

Sam wondered why he had considered him to be a stocky, sturdy-looking man, because now he looked less than solid. Thinner than Sam remembered. A deep cut along his temple made him look vulnerable.

But even so, there was a dangerous edge to his stance, power underneath his jacket. Even from the distance, Sam could see the hard eyes, striking against the dark rings that lined them. They seemed to penetrate him, and Sam couldn't shake that feeling, even though he couldn't tell which person the man was focusing that intense gaze on.

The man had been standing there for five minutes when Sam happened to glance at Rebecca. She was standing in a small group surrounded by several other chattering people, but she was largely ignoring the conversation going on around her. Instead, to Sam's surprise, her head was turned slightly, her gaze directed out to the trees where the stranger stood.

But when she caught Sam watching her, she ducked her head and refused to meet his gaze.

Sam frowned, his questions doubling. He wanted to go over and ask her about it, but he waited until she stepped away from her group before he cornered her.

"Do you know that guy?" he asked her, coming up behind her when she grabbed another beer from the cooler.

"What guy?" she asked. Sam just stared at her and waited, refusing to play along.

She straightened up, and her gaze shifted from Sam to the man by the trees and back again.

"Yeah," she finally admitted. "I do."

Sam's eyes widened. "You do?" he asked. "Who is he? What's he doing here?"

"He's just...this guy. A friend."

Sam tried to bite back his frustration. "Well, why doesn't he come over here?"

"I—I don't think that would be a good idea," she replied.

"Why not?" Sam pressed. "Who is he?"

She looked away, and Sam suddenly thought of all the times he had encountered the man outside their apartment and around campus. "Wait, Becky--has he been giving you trouble?" he demanded, grabbing her arm.

"What? No!" she replied. "What makes you think that?"

"He's been following us." She gave him a strange look and he hastened to explain. "No, really, I've been seeing him hanging around! Becky, is he stalking you?" he asked dangerously. "If he is—"

She quickly interrupted him. "No, Sam, he's not. Just...forget about him, okay?"

"But-"

"Hey, guys, what's going on?" Startled, Sam and Rebecca turned towards Zach who had stepped between them. He twisted the cap off of his beer and took a quick sip. "Is something wrong?" he went on, cocking an eyebrow.

"_Yes_," Sam jumped in,desperate for support. "Some guy's been stalking Rebecca."

"_What_?" Zach exclaimed with alarm, and Rebecca shot an exasperated look at Sam. "Becky, who?" her brother demanded, instantly slipping into the protector mode Sam had counted on.

Rebecca smirked at her older brother, crossing her arms over her chest. "That guy over there," she said, indicating him with a dip of her head.

His eyes instantly darkening, Zach spun to look at him. But as soon as he caught sight of the young man, his eyebrows shot up and he let out a noisy breath. "Oh," he said, his head rolling back slightly. "Oh, boy..."

"What? What is it?" Sam demanded. "You know him too?"

"Kinda, yeah."

Sam shot him an exasperated look, but Zach just shrugged. "Well? Don't you think he's acting a little creepy?" The two Warrens refused to answer, so Sam went on desperately. "I'm telling you, he's been tracking us."

"No, Sam, it's not like that," Rebecca replied, her eyebrows twisted with emotion. "I think he's just been...looking out for us."

"You _think_?" Sam echoed, incredulously. He held up his hands. "Hey, all I'm saying is that we should talk to him. See what he's up to. He looks like he could be dangerous."

Zach looked away. "Sam, just forget about him," he ground out. "Okay?"

Sam shook his head in exasperation. "Why do you guys keep saying that? Look, I seriously think there's something going on here, and unless you know what that is, and _tell_ me--"

He snapped his mouth shut when Rebecca turned to him, and he was stunned to see tears in her eyes. "Rebecca..." he whispered.

Rebecca pressed her lips together and her face hardened. "No, Sam, you're right. I can't stand this anymore."

"Becky...?" Zach asked.

"This isn't right," she said. Her brother shook his head but didn't say anything.

"What the hell is going on here?" Sam cut in. He had put up with their secrets for way too long, and he was exhausted.

Rebecca turned to him, but refused to look him in the eye. "I can't tell you."

Sam threw up his arms. With all of these maddening non-answers,he wondered if he would have another meltdown. "I'm going over there," he warned.

"It's too late," Rebecca said with a shake of her head, not moving her gaze from his chest. "He's gone by now." The corner of her jaw twitched.

Sam spun around. To his surprise, he saw she was right. He looked around the entire park, doing a complete turn, but the stranger had disappeared.

"But Sam, next time you see him," she added, her voice taking on a steel edge. "Confront him."

Sam stared at her for a long moment, stunned by the sudden change but still frustrated by her vague statements. "With what?" he exclaimed, jutting his head forward. "Who _is_ he?"

Rebecca turned her gaze out towards the trees again, even though the man was no longer there. She set her jaw and then answered. "He's the guy who helped save my life."

ooOOoo

Since that day, wherever Sam went, he looked for the strange man. He'd sweep his eyes along both sides of the street, he'd constantly check the lanes at the supermarket, he'd even stare out his bedroom window. But the man never appeared again.

Rebecca and Zach refused to give him the stranger's name. "He goes by so many," Rebecca said in explanation. It was a rather poor one, Sam thought irritably. He figured they held back because they didn't want him to track the man down. Maybe they wanted him to wait until he saw him again, figuring a public confrontation would be better, or at least safer. Either that, or Rebecca was already backtracking, regretting that she ever told Sam to confront him.

Their reluctance made sense though. The risk of Sam finding out about his brother would be too great if he were to ever speak with this guy, and they didn't know how Sam would react if he came face-to-face with his brother's killer.

The killer of his estranged, homicidal brother who he didn't even remember. Sam didn't know how he would react either.

Especially when said man had followed the Warrens all the way from St. Louis and now seemed to be spying on them. It disturbed him, and made him angry. Just because Rebecca owed her life to him didn't mean she should let him get away with stalking her. Sam tried to tell her that once, but she refused to admit he was doing anything wrong. He didn't believe her, especially since she had already told him to confront him. _This isn't right,_ she had admitted.

Sam thought about telling them he knew about his brother, but he kept putting it off. Maybe someday he would come up with an adequate apology, one that would make up for all the horrors his brother put them through. But until he did, he wouldn't--couldn't--bring up the subject.

The atmosphere in the apartment was tense, although no one would admit it. Sam couldn't have a conversation with either of the Warrens without wanting to press them for more answers, answers they refused to give. Even once he gave up asking, it was all he could think about. And he could tell both Zach and Rebecca were avoiding conversations with him, afraid of where it would inevitably lead to.

He hated it. He wanted things to be normal again.

He finally decided to say yes to his acceptance into law school. Without the Warrens as an anchor, the loss of classes had thrown him off balance and left him drifting. Graduate school would at least fix that, give him something to hold on to, something else to focus on. If nothing else, it would give him four years to find a way to fix himself before he had to enter the real world. Maybe he would even find that piece that was missing.

But law school was still an entire summer away.

Neither did he have the library, which no longer held the appeal it used to. Without school, there was nothing there for him.

Sam did visit once, briefly. He sat at his regular computer, pulled up the newspaper archives, and searched the St. Louis newspaper for the days and weeks following the death of Zach's girlfriend. He even searched websites devoted to true crime, filled with information not published in the papers. But there was very little mention of the man who killed Dean Winchester. In fact, no one seemed to be aware of his name, or of the chain of events that led to the wanted man's death.

But Sam did find a picture of his brother's gravestone. It was a cheap, government issued one, and he only stumbled across it because one of the web sites had a morbid fascination with such things.

After that, Sam found no reason to set foot inside the library again.

The daze that had followed him ever since the summer before came into sharp focus, becoming a thick gray blanket that obscured his mind, and the only thing that could penetrate were thoughts of the man with the piercing gaze. The only man who could give him answers. A man so dangerous he's killed before.

Sam wondered when his life had turned into a movie. "My name is Samuel Winchester. You killed my brother. Prepare to die."

That was how surreal his life had become. Sam snorted derisively. He was supposed to be a mild-mannered law student, not some hunter or fighter searching for revenge. Besides, he didn't feel any anger towards the stranger. He didn't feel anything at all, really.

He just wanted some answers.

Hell, he should be grateful towards the bounty hunter who kept a psychopath from killing again andsaved the lives of Sam's closest two friends (and wasn't that a sentence he never thought he would say?). He just wished he knew what was going on.

But as hard and as often as he looked, the man never showed up.

Maybe they scared him off. Sam knew that had to be for the better. He didn't know the man's motives, and he couldn't imagine his presence causing anything but trouble. It was just creepy.

But deep inside his chest, he couldn't shake the feeling of disappointment and - though he shied away from thinking about it; he didn't like considering this guy as his last connection to his brother – a sense of heavy sadness.

_Just forget him, just forget him, just forget him_.

The more he started agreeing with the Warrens' advice, the harder it became to forget him. Or maybe it was the opposite: the more he thought about him, themore he realized it would be better if he could forget him.

But Sam figured he had already forgotten too much of his life already.

Two weeks after graduation, Sam was jerked awake at three in the morning. The light fixture on his ceiling had exploded, showering a hundred shards of glass onto Sam's bed.

* * *

Next one's coming soon. Would love to hear for you!


	9. Chapter 9

"It must have been a surge," Sam said with a shrug the next morning as he poured coffee into his mug. "Weird, but no big deal."

"But the left side of your face is all scratched," Rebecca protested. Her face had paled considerably when Sam came out with red streaks across his cheek, and had gone completely white when he told her why.

"Well it kinda stings, but I'm fine," Sam shook off her concern. The cuts on his face were shallow, some of them even invisible once he had washed the blood away.

"Do...do you want to switch rooms?" she asked him, her eyebrows pushing her forehead into a worried bunch.

"Huh? Why?"

"It sounds like your room might be dangerous."

"It was a one time thing," Sam said, somewhat bewildered by her fear. "And even if it were dangerous, I'm certainly not going to let you stay there instead."

"Yeah, but..." Rebecca trailed off, never finishing her thought. She looked away, frustration clearly written on her face.

ooOOoo

A week later, Sam was sitting at the desk in his bedroom, playing solitaire on his laptop. He knew he needed a hobby, but he couldn't conjure up enough desire or energy to find one. Playing solitaire gave him something to do, though, and it became a kind of hobby by default, one he participated in during the long hours he sat next to his bedroom window. However, he paid more attention to the ground outside his window than he did the computer screen.

He was gazing out of the window, waiting as the game he won finished bouncing around the screen, when suddenly the back of his chair was yanked backwards.

The chair instantly toppled down, pulling Sam with it, slamming him hard against the ground. His head struck the hardwood floor, and pain exploded through his skull. Sam laid there for a long, dazed moment, the wind knocked out of him, trying to figure out what just happened.

He rolled his head backwards, wincing as it throbbed, to see who had pulled his chair. But his room was empty, the door still closed. "What the hell?" he muttered, pushing himself up from the floor. He straightened up painfully, grimacing as he felt new bruises protest against the movement.

Sam found Rebecca in her bedroom, flipping through a magazine. She looked up curiously at his entrance. "Did someone just come into my room?" he asked her.

"No, I've been in here, and Zach's out," she replied. "Why?"

"I could've sworn..." he mumbled, shaking his head slowly. "Alright, thanks."

"What happened?" she asked, stopping him before he could leave.

Sam flushed. "I-I fell over in my chair," he told her, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. She cocked her head, a crease in between her eyebrows, and Sam was forced to explain. "I just thought...It kinda felt like someone pulled it backwards."

Rebecca jumped to her feet. "Really? Are you sure?" she pressed, her eyes going wide.

Sam took an awkward step backwards. "Um, no, I just imagined it. It's nothing. No one could have snuck in there and out," he rushed to assure her when she didn't look convinced. "I can check the apartment though, if you're scared..."

"No, no, it's not that," she replied. "I just..." She hesitated and bit her lip. "Maybe it was a ghost or something."

Sam gaped at her. "A ghost?" he echoed with a low snort. "Oh come on, that's—" He cut himself off when he saw the look on her face. He sighed, feeling that he had insulted her. "Even if ghosts existed, this is a brand new building," he reasoned with her more gently.

"I know, but—" She drew in a deep breath. "It just seems like something might be going on. I mean, that's the second weird thing to happen in a week."

"Well, even if it is a ghost, I think I can put up with it," Sam replied with an easy smirk. She nodded, although she still looked uncertain. "I'll let you know if anything else happens, okay?" he reassured her.

"You promise?" Rebecca asked earnestly.

"Yeah, sure," Sam replied as he stepped out of her room.

He made his way back to his bedroom, wondering how long Rebecca had believed in ghost stories.

ooOOoo

Sam had made a promise, and he would never break it. He just never thought he'd have to act on that promise.

But three days later when Sam was walking towards his closet, something grabbed his foot and pulled it out from underneath him. In the next instant Sam's backside was slamming against the floor, and his mind was racing.

This time, he _knew_ there was no one in his room. And he knew he didn't just lose his balance.

Sam felt his heart beating in rapid rhythm. The logical part of his mind refused to work, and the illogical part told him maybe Rebecca had a point. He could think of no other explanation.

"Um..." he said hesitantly, coming back out of his room. He had just bade Rebecca and Zach goodnight, and they looked up with curiosity as he came back into the living room. "Hey, Rebecca...Remember our little chat from the other day?"

Rebecca thought for a moment before realization came over her face. "What happened?" she demanded instantly, getting to her feet.

"Something, um, grabbed my leg. Made me fall."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, man..." she whispered. "I was hoping it wasn't..." She shot a glance over her shoulder at her brother.

"So, what, you still think it's a ghost?" Sam asked her.

"Yeah. Or something. I don't know, I'm not the expert."

Her wording gave him pause. "Who is?" he asked her, confused. She ignored him.

"Becky..." Zach started. "What's going on?"

Rebecca looked between him and Sam. "I-I don't know. Let me think about it."

ooOOoo

After a few days, Sam wasn't sure if she was stilling thinking or had forgotten about it – whatever "it" was. In any case, she said nothing to him, and nothing else really happened - after all, it was probably just vibrations from a large truck that knockedthe alarm clock off his stand midweek.vSoon, Sam was doubting anything strange had actually happened to begin with, and he quickly forgot about it.

That Friday, Rebecca cornered him and Zach and told them they were coming with her and a couple of friends for some drinks. "We haven't gone out since graduation," she complained. Zach agreed right away, and she ignored Sam when he tried to decline.

As it turned out, only the three of them and Matilda ended up at their usual bar. It was a subdued gathering, filled with casual conversation and long stretches in which they sat back and listened to the music.

Rebecca had arranged the get-together, but she was the most quiet out of the four, talking even less than Sam. Normally she had an easy laugh, but that night she missed almost half of the jokes. When she did catch one, she laughed a little too hard and a little too long.

Sam wasn't the only one to notice that Rebecca was distracted. "Is something wrong?" Matilda asked her after an hour. "You seem off."

"Oh! No," she said, breaking into a sheepish smile. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked, sharing a look with Matilda.

"Yes, of course. But, you know, actually...I think I'm going to go home," she confessed.

Sam frowned, worried that she was acting so unlike herself. "But _why_? It's still early," Matilda protested.

Rebecca ducked her head, a wry grin spreading across her face. "I know. It's really silly," she started to explain with a embarrassed laugh. "I forgot to set TiVo to record Leno tonight."

Zach groaned and rolled his eyes. "Oh, Lord, who's on?"

Rebecca grinned widely. "Wentworth Miller," she announced, wagging her eyebrows.

Zach and Sam exchanged knowing, half-exasperated glances. "Aw, you're leaving me for a bald guy?" Matilda whined.

"Yes," Rebecca said simply. "I am. And he's not bald."

At that, Matilda twisted her face into an exaggerated pout. "Ah, c'mon Becky, stay. He'll be on again."

But Rebecca obstinately shook her head. "Sorry, but nope. I'm just running home to set it, though. I'll be right back." Matilda reluctantly accepted her answer.

"Girls," Zach muttered, taking a swig from his beer. He liked to tease Rebecca about her celebrity crushes with an ease that came from decades of practice. Sam had always been a little jealous of their banter.

Rebecca gave Zach her best mock glare – probably another decade-long custom – before she turned to Sam. "Will you walk me back?" she asked, lifting her shoulders sheepishly.

"Sure, of course," Sam replied, unsurprised by her request. He would have offered if she hadn't asked. She grinned with relief and started to stand. "Actually," Sam said, stopping her with a hand. "I'll just go. I can set it for you."

She immediately started to protest. "Oh, no, Sam, you don't need-"

"There's no reason for the both of us to go," he said, cutting her off.

"Yeah, but it's my show," she pointed out. "You shouldn't have to do that."

"It's no problem," he assured her smoothly, smiling to let her know he was sincere. And he _was_ sincere – in fact, he was already looking forward to a break from the constant noise and thick air of the bar. Rebecca still looked uncertain, however, as she thought it over. "Leno, right?" he went on quickly, before her guilt could overcome her.

She nodded, finally relenting. "Thanks, Sam." He smiled at her and turned to go, but before he could leave, she grabbed his arm.

Her eyes searched his. "Call me if you need to. Okay?"

Matilda snorted loudly. "You're obsessed." Without looking, Rebecca slapped her on the arm.

Sam chuckled. "I know how to work TiVo," he said. "I don't think there'll be any problem."

"I know," she replied, sounding uncertain. "But still."

"If I need anything, I'll call," Sam assured her, before nodding at the three of them in goodbye. "See you in a few," he said as he turned around.

"You're really going to let him go?" he heard Zach ask as he walked away.

"I offered to go with him," Rebecca defended herself. She went on to say more, but by then, Sam was out of earshot.

Their apartment stood only a few blocks from the bar, and Sam made it there in quick time without the slightest mishap. The air was warm but light, and the people he passed along the way seemed to be in good spirits. Sam found his mood lifting with them.

As he walked, helet himselfwonder about Rebecca's strange mood. He highly doubted she was worrying over a Leno guest, and he couldn't help but suspect she was hiding something from them. But her desire to see Wentworth Miller certainly fit with what he knew of her, so even if that wasn't what was bothering her, he saw no reason to turn her down. He would ask her about her mood later, when they were home together.

Once he reached the apartment, it didn't take him long to set the TV for Rebecca. After it was set, he tossed the remote back onto the couch and was turning to leave when the hallway caught his eye.

His bedroom door was shut, but a shaft of light shone from underneath it.

Sam instantly froze, his heart jumping into his throat. He knew he hadn't left his light on. In fact, he specifically remembered almost forgetting his wallet and feeling for it in the dark.

Sam thought about calling the cops, but his pride wouldn't let him until he checked it out himself. Adrenaline making his heart pound, he quietly grabbed a steak knife from the kitchen and made sure his cell phone was within easy reach inside his pocket.

He tiptoed to his room, pausing at the door to gather his nerves. He drew himself up against the wall, and then with a sudden burst, threw open the door and rushed inside, brandishing his knife.

He was unprepared for the sight that greeted him. His bedside lamp lay on the floor, broken into a dozen pieces. Along the opposite wall, a short, three-shelf bookcase had toppled onto its front. Some of its contents had spilled out around it, but other books had ended up in a haphazard pattern all across the room, somehow reaching to all four corners, almost as if they were thrown one by one.

And in the middle of the mess, a man with sandy brown hair lay on his back, his usually penetrating eyes now closed and a bloody gash torn across his forehead.

* * *

_Finally, eh? _

_LOL, there were so__ many directions I wanted to go with this thing - I hope you won't be disappointed!_

_In any case, please review!_


	10. Chapter 10

_As a great big thank you to all the readers and reviews out there, here's the next chapter. Except, wait--it's shorter than the others? Aw, crikey._

* * *

Sam, his eyes fixed on the man lying before him, took a couplecautious steps into the room. He came to a stop and swallowed, letting the knife fall from his hand and onto the mattress of his bed. Then he spun around and left. 

He only paused for a moment in the hallway before he hurried into the bathroom, fumbling for the first aid kit they kept in the closet. He'd never used it before, but he'd always been aware of its location. His fingers quickly closed around it and he yanked it out, toppling a pile of washcloths in the process. He grabbed one that teetered on the edge and ran it under the faucet.

Belatedly, he realized that maybe he shouldn't have left his knife behind, but two seconds later he was back in the bedroom and the man was still out.

The phrase _what the hell?_ kept repeating itself in his mind.

Sam knelt carefully beside the man after clearing a space on the floor with his foot. He immediately went into first aid mode, an automatic setting that required no thinking. In fact, it let him push aside all of his thoughts, let him ignore anything that tried to distract him. As he tended the man's wounds, checking his body for other injuries, thousands of thoughts ran through his head, all of them starting with why or how or who, and all of them left unfinished, questions not fully formed.

His hands ghosted over limbs and chest, feeling for breaks and blood. He poked and prodded, his fingers searching and gentle, as he trained his ears to the steady rhythm of the man's breathing. To his relief, other than the ones visible on his face, he found no further injuries. The man was simply unconscious.

He did find a wallet, though, which he pulled out but didn't look at.

He also found two blades and a small knife. Sam took those away, too, with a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The man flinched as Sam started to clean the gash on his forehead. Sam wondered if he should tie him up, call the police, or even just call Rebecca, but without exactly knowing why, he decided against each option. Instead, he wiped away the blood that had dried along the side of his face, using the wet washcloth to gently scrub it clean. Underneath the blood, he found the healing remains of another, older cut, reminding him of the sight of him at graduation.

He quickly and thoroughly disinfected the new wound and pressed a bandage against it. Within only a few minutes, he had finished treating the cut on his forehead as well as the split in his lip. He considered dragging the man onto his bed, but it was easier just to leave him on the floor. As an afterthought, Sam tucked a pillow underneath his head.

Sam stood up, distantly feeling his knees crack, and blinked his eyes at the floor.

He thought about sweeping up the broken pieces of the lamp, but he would need a garbage bag and broom from the kitchen, and he wasn't about to risk leaving again. Instead, he stepped over the bits of glass, shooing some of them out of the way with his sneaker, and went up to the fallen bookcase, which he quickly righted.

He then went about gathering all the books and other items strewn across the room. These he just stacked into loose piles around the base of the bookcase, rather than rearranging them upright in the shelves. He could do that later. Some of the little trinkets and figurines he put on top of the books, including the small mesh bags of herbs or potpourri he never noticed before. Anything broken, he left where they lay.

Once he finished, Sam clambered backwards on the floor until he met the side of his bed. There he settled, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back resting against the bedframe. It wasn't very comfortable, but he didn't notice.

He didn't know how long he waited, staring at the man's face for signs of movement. It couldn't have been very long, just minutes, but it lasted too long and yet not long enough for Sam.

Eventually he picked up the stranger's wallet and played with it in his hand, turning it over back and forth, weighing it. He ran his fingers over the leather and stared at it for a long moment, his mind refusing to tell him what to do.

Then, with a burst of courage and nerve, he flipped it open, ready to see what it would tell him.

It was stuffed with cards. Credit cards, ID cards, business cards, all packed tightly into each pocket. Each card displayed a different name.

Sam felt a small twinge of relief, an insignificant comfort, that his friends hadn't lied to him, at least not about his use of multiple names. Billy K. Bonney, John Ford, Robert Plant – he counted fifteen different identities before he gave up.

Discouraged, he squeezed the cards back into the wallet and then tossed it onto the floor. He rolled his head backwards until it rested against the mattress and closed his eyes, pressing his eyelids against his eyeballs. The wallet told him nothing except the guy before him knew how to lie.

Then Sam let out a deep sigh and straightened back up so he could keep an eye on the man on the floor.

The man wore casual clothes, worn jeans with a long-sleeved, dark green shirt – the same kind of clothes Sam had seen him wear all those times he spotted him around town. The long sleeves were a strange choice for the summer, but it was made from a thin, cool material. While checking for injuries, he had felt muscles underneath the fabric, and he knew he had strength.

The skin around his eyes looked a little dark, and his cheeks a little hollow – not alarmingly so, just enough to tell Sam he hadn't been eating or sleeping quite as well as he should, at least not recently. Other than that, he seemed to be a healthy, regular guy.

Who snuck into Sam's room armed with three knives.

Just then, the man groaned and rocked his head. Sam's heart skipped a beat and he had to clench his jeans to stay calm. He leaned forward anxiously, waiting and watching.

The man's arm moved first, coming up off the floor to touch his head. Sam leaned even closer, sitting up off his haunches until his head hovered over the man's face. The man's eyes blinked open slowly and slid back shut with a groan.

And then his eyes jumped open wide.

He immediately started flailing, his arms and legs scrambling as he pushed himself upwards into a sitting position. "Oh, _shit_!" he said in a panic, scuttling backwards with his elbows. His wide eyes traveled wildly over Sam's face.

Sam stared back, waiting, his own heart calming in the face of the other guy's panic. "I bandaged your head," he informed him after a moment.

It took a few seconds before his words sunk in. Without taking his eyes off Sam, the man slowly raised his arm to confirm it, his fingers hesitantly touching the pad Sam had affixed there. "Uh, thanks..." he replied uncertainly, his eyebrows furrowing. He looked away, blinking at the books Sam had piled on the ground.

Sam kept his eyes on him. The man seemed to be in no rush to explain himself, and Sam couldn't decide which question to go with first. But he was too impatient to wait.

"What the hell happened?" Sam asked, his voice amazingly level. "What are you doing here?"

The stranger's eyes flicked towards him. "And what do you want with me?" Sam went on, meeting his gaze.

"I—I don't..." He stopped and cleared his throat. "I was walking by, and I heard some strange noises coming from your room. So I-"

Sam cut him off with a wave of his arm. "Don't start." The man was about to protest, but Sam wouldn't let him. "What are you trying to do? What do you want with me?" he repeated, slow and even and dark.

"Nothing."

"I find you my room with a couple of nasty-looking knives. You go through, tear up all my things...and you expect me to believe that?"

An angry, frustrated look came over the other man's face, and he started talking more earnestly. "I told you, I just happened by-"

"Stop it!" Sam finally cried. The man looked up at him, startled, worried. "I _know_ you know who I am."

The man scoffed at that, tried to brush him off with a toss of his head and skeptical twist of his lips. "How would-"

"And I know who _you_ are," Sam continued flatly, cutting him off.

The man paled instantly. "You...You do," he grunted after a moment, sounding as if he were trying to keep his voice under control.

Sam nodded and raised his chin and eyebrows defiantly. "Yeah. I do."

The other man turned his head slightly so that he was looking at Sam through the corner of his eye. "Who am I, then?" he asked, cautiously.

Sam swallowed and tried not to show any weakness. "You're the one who killed my brother."

* * *

_Yeah, I know, that's not_ _really a cliffhanger, since we already knew that's what Sam thinks. But I hope you'll stick around anyhow, because the next chapter's already on its way!_


	11. Chapter 11

"You're the one who killed my brother."

* * *

A storm of emotions flew across his face and his eyes popped wide. "_What_? Where—How—" he stumbled and then stopped, working his jaw back and forth as he tried to put together a thought. But he quickly recovered, collecting himself enough to ask, "How do you figure?" 

Sam saw through his obvious mask, and he was glad that, for once, he was able to take someone else by surprise. "I read about most of it in the newspaper archives," he explained. "Put two and two together and got you."

A confused frown creased his forehead, but then the man's eyes widened with understanding. "Oh," he said weakly. His eyebrows furrowed together and he ducked his head.

Sam felt he should say something, felt he needed to defend himself against the possible thoughts running through the stranger's head. "Look, I don't remember what happened," he said, keeping his voice serious. "But I want you to know, I'm not a violent freak like my brother."

He flinched violently, jerking as if struck, and Sam knew his words had hit a bull's-eye. "Yeah. I know. I know that," the man muttered.

Sam frowned. "So what do you want with me?"

"Oh, boy..." he said, forcing a noisy breath through his lips as he scrubbed his face with his hand. "Is Rebecca here?" he finally asked.

Sam shook his head. "No, not yet."

"Crap." He tossed his head in frustration and said no more.

Refusing to be deterred, Sam crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Were you looking from something?" he asked impatiently. "Who else was here? How did you get in?"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, college boy," the man said, holding up a hand. "Hit my head, remember? Not working at full capacity here."

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes. At least it didn't look like he would be attacked anytime soon. "Can you at least tell me your name?" he asked dryly.

"Yeah. It's John," the other man replied.

Sam didn't believe him, seeing no reason why "John" would tell him the truth. But he supposed he didn't need to know, at least not yet, so he accepted it. "All right, _John_, what the hell happened?"

"You know, it'd really help if Rebecca was here."

"Try anyway."

John drew in a long, deep breath. "Okay, fine. Rebecca called me, told me she needed my help. She's the one who left the door unlocked for me."

"Rebecca told you it was okay to mess up my room?" Sam asked skeptically.

"Well, no, that was just a side effect," he replied, and Sam snorted.

John paused for a moment, looking a little uncomfortable. "Um...Rebecca said you don't believe in ghosts anymore."

"I never did," Sam retorted.

"Fine, whatever," John said irritably, waving him off. "The thing is, they're real, and your room attracted a poltergeist. Rebecca called me to get rid of it."

Sam stared at him for a long moment. "Rebecca called you to get rid of a poltergeist in my bedroom," he repeated flatly.

He shrugged casually. "Yeah, that's kinda my gig."

"How old _are _you?"

John narrowed his eyes. "25. Why?"

"You're 25, and this is what you do with your life?" he scoffed. "You go around, like one of those ghost hunters?"

John shot a fierce glare at him. "Yeah. I'm a freakin' ghost hunter." And even though his tone was sarcastic, it was obvious he wasn't denying it.

So he was "the expert" Rebecca was referring to? Was _this_ what Zach meant by bounty hunter? Sam thought furiously, trying to piece together the information he had. John's story fit, in a strange way, so maybe—_maybe_—he was telling the truth.

But that didn't mean he believed the nonsense John was saying. "And how much will this scam cost Rebecca?" he asked.

John's jaw dropped. "Hey, I offer my services for free," he said defensively, sounding hurt. Sam almost felt bad, but then he remembered what John was trying to convince him of. "I got rid of it, by the way."

"What? The poltergeist?"

"Yeah. It put up one helluva fight though." He gestured at the mess around him.

"You're cleaning that up, you know," Sam told him.

"Me? Hell, no, I'm not."

They stared at each other for a long moment, a short battle of wills. Finally, Sam shook his head and sighed. "I just...I don't believe this. I've been waiting for answers, and this is what I get."

"What do you mean-" John started in defensively.

Just then, they heard the apartment door open and the noises of Zach and Rebecca coming home. Both men jerked in surprise, and Sam wasn't sure if he should be relieved or not. An instant later, Rebecca's voice rang out. "Sam?" she called, sounding hesitant.

Then Sam felt a sudden stab of irritation and anger, realizing she had set him up.

She knew John would be here, and she sent Sam, hoping he would run into him. "We're in here," he called out, suddenly tired.

A few seconds later, he heard the footfalls of Rebecca as she came towards his room. She poked her head through the door. "Is everything okay?" she asked timidly. Her eyes widened as she surveyed the room. "Oh, gosh..."

"Yeah, it's fine," Sam replied lowly. "Looks like you sent me home just in time."

John reacted immediately, leaping to his feet at Sam's words. "You sent him?" he burst out, outraged. "What the hell!"

Rebecca opened and closed her mouth a couple of times. John continued to glare at her, which seemed to give her a sudden, hard resolve.

"I was _sick _of this," she finally said. "I was sick and tired of hiding all of this from Sam." Sam watched her silently, not saying anything, and John glanced away, glowering. She looked around the room and ran a frustrated hand through her blonde hair. "Although I guess this wasn't much of a reunion," she sighed, worrying her lip. She took a step backwards. "I'll leave you two alone-"

Sam jumped up, dumbfounded. "Reunion?" he shot out. "We've met before?"

Rebecca turned wide eyes on him. "You—You..." She swung towards John, a shocked look on her face.

"Yeah," John admitted gruffly to Sam. "You were there when I killed your brother." Sam sucked in a sudden breath.

Rebecca gasped. "Is that what you told him?" she demanded angrily.

The older man shook his head. "I didn't tell him anything. He already knew." He looked at Rebecca pointedly.

Sam glared at him for that, irritated that he seemed to blame _her, _as if it were her fault Sam spent the last year struggling to find answers.

"What! _How_?" she exclaimed, her white face turning to Sam. "Where did you hear that?"

Sam couldn't meet her eyes at first. "I looked it up at the library a few months ago," he admitted. He raised his head to look at her through the fringe of his bangs. She was staring at him, a look of horror on her face. "I'm so sorry, Rebecca. I-I knew you were hiding that from me, and I was too scared to tell you I knew about my brother."

He ducked his head again. "God, I'm so sorry. I don't know how I can ever make up for what my brother did to you and Zach."

Rebecca continued to stare at him, her face having yet to regain color. "Oh, no, Sam..." she whispered. She looked over at John and then back to him. "That's not—Sam, you of all people have nothing to apologize for."

Sam shifted uncomfortably and decided not to reply to that. "I still don't understand why you wanted me to meet John," he asked instead.

John jumped in, answering for her. "I saved your life," he told him bluntly.

"_What_?"

Sam listened, stunned, as John explained how he found Sam on the floor of Rebecca's house, Dean on top of him, strangling him to death. John had burst in just in time, had to stop Dean by shooting him, which killed him instantly. Saving Sam's life.

As he explained, Rebecca looked away and shuddered.

Sam whistled lowly at the news, unable to do anything else but run a shaky hand through his hair. So he _had_ been there, he had been that close friend Zach told him about. And his own brother tried to kill him.

He looked at Rebecca, but she refused to meet his gaze. "So why have you been hanging around here?" he asked John.

John tilted his head, considering his answer. "Okay, I know you don't believe me about this whole poltergeist thing, but well...you're kind of a magnet for paranormal activity," he explained as Sam listened critically. "In between my jobs, I've been checking up on you, making sure everything was okay."

"You've been stalking me to make sure ghosts weren't haunting me." Sam closed his eyes and jerked his head with disbelief. "Wow. Okay. That's insane."

"You felt someone tug at your ankle, right?" John pointed out hotly."And pull your chair?"

But Sam wasn't ready to admit anything yet. "I don't know, I mean, it could have just-"

"Been your imagination?" John replied sarcastically. Sam just lifted an eyebrow, thinking, _yes, my imagination._

John studied his face and then let out a half-snort, half-sigh. "Well, anyway, I guess it doesn't matter if you believe me or not."

Sam was taken aback by the sorrow in his voice. "You have to understand, this is the first time someone's told me ghosts are real," he explained, trying to ease tensions. "Even if it _is_ true, it's going to take some getting used to."

"Yeah," John grunted, looking away. "Yeah, I know."

* * *

_All right, as you can see, YES, I am dragging this baby out. _

_Just to warn you all, all of this is just setting up for the next stage of the story. (Oh, good Lord...)_


	12. Chapter 12

Rebecca insisted that John spend the night that night. He refused at first and only relented after she dumped a pile of pillows and blankets onto the couch. He also accepted the leftover pizza she shoved in the microwave when he admitted he hadn't eaten dinner yet.

Sam watched it all from the kitchen table, listening to Rebecca's clipped words and John's gruff responses. Sam knew there were still things he didn't know, on top of things he still didn't believe, but it was far too late and he was far too drained to worry about it.

Zach, for his part, remained mostly silent after Rebecca pulled him aside and explained the situation. Sam could tell he was uncomfortable with it, and he almost wished he could turn the clock back a couple of hours, back to when they could full-out ignore the past instead of tiptoeing around it like they were forced to do now. He also knew Zach would have been much better off without a blatant reminder of his girlfriend's death hanging over the evening.

Zach ended up going to bed after a short while and Rebecca excused herself to change into her nightwear, leaving Sam and John alone. From his position at the table, Sam could see into the living room, and he quietly watched as John arranged the blankets over the couch. "I don't know why she gave me three," John muttered. "It's freakin' June."

Sam cracked a smile, and he must have made a noise because John looked up at him. John studied him for a moment and then, straightening, decided to walk towards him. "Got a nice place here, eh Sammy?" he said with a half-smile as he approached.

"It's Sam," he replied automatically. "And yeah, I have the Warrens to thank for that. Who knows where I'd be without them." He'd given that possibility a lot of thought, and he still hadn't a clue where he would have ended up.

John nodded as he pulled out a chair. "So, life is pretty good, huh? Got a college degree, living out in Cali, bright future, hot roommate..."

Sam snorted and ducked his head. "Yeah, it's alright, I guess."

"Just alright?" the shorter man replied skeptically, leaning back in his chair. Sam merely shrugged in reply. He knew he had it pretty good, but...Well, no life was perfect, so he couldn't complain.

Sam was just about to ask about his life when Rebecca came back, now wearing pajama pants and a tank top. "I just wanted to say good night, make sure you were all set," she said softly. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Nope, I'm good," John replied. "Thanks." She looked at Sam, who nodded that he was fine, and then left them with a friendly goodnight.

John turned to Sam. "Well, I guess you're probably going to bed too."

"Nope," Sam replied. John blinked in surprise, his head cocked in a questioning manner. "You might have a concussion," Sam told him. "I'm going to stay up with you, make sure you're all right."

The injured man scoffed. "Dude, I'm fine," he said. "You don't need to do that."

"Wanna see what's on late night TV?" Sam went on, ignoring him. He smirked as he added, "I hear Leno had Wentworth Miller."

"I said I'm fine."

But Sam was already on his feet and making his way towards the living room. "Have you seen the remote? Ah, never mind, here it is."

He heard John grumbling behind him as he followed him in. Sam plopped down in the armchair, watching out of the corner of his eye as John slowly lowered himself onto the couch.

As Sam flipped through the channels, John cleared his throat. "So, um," he started. "If you know what happened in St. Louis...why aren't you mad?"

"I am mad," Sam replied. "Dude, you trashed my room."

John snorted and shook his head. "But what about..." he trailed off.

Sam shrugged. "Well, I don't remember my brother." He turned suddenly, frowning. "Did Rebecca tell you I had some type of mental breakdown? Select amnesia or repressed memories, something like that." He gave a forced half-laugh, trying to keep that announcement casual. John paused but then nodded uncomfortably. "So anyway, as far as I'm concerned, I don't know my brother. And it sounds like he's better off dead anyway. I mean, God, what he did to Rebecca and Zach..."

He felt that familiar sick feeling twist inside his stomach. "Thank God you stopped him."

John shifted, obviously uncomfortable with the praise. "Well, you know, you kinda helped."

"Yeah, right," Sam scoffed. "I just provided enough of a distraction to stall him."

John looked at him. "No, it was more than that," John argued, his eyes boring through him. "The case was closed. Everyone thought Zach had done it. Everyone except Rebecca and _you_. You're the one who went out to prove otherwise, and without you, he'd still be sitting in jail and that psycho would be out slaughtering people."

Sam flinched at the word "psycho" in reference to his brother, but his mind was whirring as he struggled to comprehend what John just told him. "I...Really?"

He knew he never would have believed Zach was capable of such horrible crimes, but would he really have thought he had the power to do anything? The fact that he tried...Sam sucked in a breath, enjoying the warm, pleased feeling that gave him.

"So, uh..." Sam started, trying to cover up that feeling. "Did my brother have supernatural powers or something?"

"Huh? Nope, just a normal, regular guy."

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "So then how did you get involved?"

John gave it a second of thought. "Referral," he said with a smirk, resting his head against the back of the couch.

Sam quietly nodded. He had many other questions, but his mind hid them all, too tired to define them into words. He turned his attention back to the television, flipping aimlessly through the channels. Five minutes later, he gave up and left it on a documentary about medieval England.

"Yeah, you _would_ choose the History Channel," John muttered from the couch.

Sam turned to him, bemused. "What do you want to watch?"

"Nah, this is fine."

Sam settled back into his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. The narrator droned on about kings and battles, but even though he tried to concentrate, Sam quickly tuned his voice out. His mind had shut down so that all he could do was watch images of English landscapes and historical artifacts scroll across the screen.

It wasn't until he was seeing footage of B-52s that Sam realized he had fallen asleep. A glance at the clock told him two hours had passed. He looked over at the couch and found John asleep in a sitting position, his head lolled back.

Sam pushed himself out of the chair and went to him, crouching down on the floor. "Hey. Hey, John," he said, shaking his arm. "Wake up."

John groaned. "Stop it, Sammy."

Sam sighed. "No, you gotta wake up. C'mon, just for a second."

Finally his eyelids parted and he lifted his head. "What?"

"Just wanted to make sure you're not confused," Sam told him.

"Well, I _am _confused - I should be asleep right now and yet I'm not."

"Alright, alright, just tell me you know who you are."

"I know who I am," he replied irritably.

"Good. Now why don't you go ahead and lie down?" Sam suggested. "I'll wake you up in another couple of hours."

"You don't need to do that," John replied with a roll of his eyes. "I'm fine." As he spoke, he lowered himself into a lying position, pulling the covers up over his shoulders as he rested his head against the pillow. "Just go to bed," he commanded, his eyes already closing.

Sam ignored him, going back to the chair. Within moments, he was asleep again.

A few hours later he forced himself into a semi-conscious state, dimly aware that the historical documentaries had been replaced with infomercials. He half-heartedly tried to open his eyes, but they slid back shut. His limbs felt as if they had melted into the chair, and he didn't even bother to try moving them.

Without opening his eyes, he rolled his head towards the couch. "Hey. Wake up."

A grunt answered him, so he tried again. "Hey, Dean, _wake up_."

"Go to sleep, Sammy," a gruff, groggy voice replied.

That suggestion sounded really good – but he had to finish this first. "Just tell me your name," he said with a groan.

"Dean."

Sam sighed with relief. "All right. Night," he said drowsily, rolling his head back into a more comfortable position.

He had just reached the edge of slumber when his mind jerked him back awake. "Hey!" he said, scrambling out of his chair. "Hey, wake up again."

"What?" the older man growled as Sam shook his shoulder.

"You're confused," Sam told him. "You gave me the wrong name."

He cracked an eye open. "Huh?"

He must have had his brother on his mind when he called John the wrong name. However, there was a big difference between getting someone's name wrong and getting your own name wrong. "Your concussion—you're not thinking straight. I accidentally called you Dean, and that must have messed you up, because that's the name you gave me."

Now both eyes opened. "No, it wasn't," he protested.

"Yes, it was." Sam chewed on his lip, studying John's face in the blue glow of the TV, trying to find any sign of a concussion. "Maybe I should take you to the hospital, just in case."

"No, man, I'm fine," he said irritably. "My name is John, today is officially Saturday, and if I didn't need my beauty sleep, I would kick your ass right now."

Suppressing a smirk, Sam gave him the once over. "Alright, fine," he finally relented, holding his hand up in surrender. He was too tired to argue, and it seemed to him John was coherent, if not cranky. "If you lapse into a coma, it's not my fault."

"I'll take that chance. At least then you can't wake me up." With that, John rolled over, turning his back to Sam.

Sam sighed irritably as he stood up again. His neck and back protested simultaneously with painful cracks. He looked at the clock and saw that it was nearly morning, and in another few hours, Zach would be waking up. Sam scribbled a quick note telling him to wake John to check on him. Then he stumbled into his bedroom, where his bed promised a much more comfortable place to rest.

ooOOoo

Sam woke up slowly the next morning, gently coming into consciousness as the light brightened through the curtains and snaked up his bed. His eyes opened and closed a couple of times before he finally decided to get up, and he took his time to stretch before he tossed his sheet off and rolled out of bed.

But it wasn't until he was out of bed that he realized how weird it felt. Replaying the last few moments, it occurred to him just how unusual waking up that way was for him.

It was the first time he could remember that he woke up without a hint of panic racing through his veins.

Sam wondered if he had finally broken that habit. Since last summer, nightmares of Jessica that attacked him every night faded slowly into a weekly occurrence until now, when he dreamed of her only occasionally. But that underlying panic that woke him everyday had never faded. Not until that morning.

He hoped it would stay that way.

After a quick trip to the bathroom, Sam wandered out to the kitchen-slash-living room area. He heard water running in the second bathroom and knew Rebecca or maybe Zach was showering. In the kitchen, he found John standing by the counter. He was fumbling with the tray in the coffee maker with one hand while reading the plastic coffee canister he held in his other.

"Need some help?" Sam asked with a smirk.

John whirled around. "Oh. Heh," he said, trying but failing to hide his embarrassment. "How do you work this thing?"

"You don't know how to use a coffee maker?"

"Dude, I'm on the road all the time," he said indignantly. "All my coffee comes from gas stations and diners."

"You don't have a coffee maker at home?"

"I don't even have a home."

Sam gaped at him. "So when you say you're on the road all the time, you mean, all the time."

John spread his hands out. "I don't speak in riddles."

He stepped back as Sam strode forward and took over the coffee maker. Sam wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he didn't. As he scooped grinded beans into the filter, he glanced over his shoulder. "So how'd you sleep?"

"Not too bad," John shrugged. "That couch was more comfortable than most hotel beds. Would've been perfect if someone hadn't kept _waking me up_." He shot Sam a glare.

Sam chuckled. "You're welcome, by the way." John just scoffed. "So, what's next for you?" Sam asked him just as he flipped the coffee maker on.

He turned around as John considered his answer. "I drink my coffee," he said. "And then I leave."

"Already?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow. "Where are you going?"

John shrugged. "Wherever I'm needed."

Still not satisfied, Sam pressed forward. "How do you know where that is?" he asked.

"Newspapers," John replied with an irritated snort. "I go through hundreds of newspapers until I find something that might be up my alley. You know, anything weird."

"So you're still selling the ghost thing."

"Not just ghosts. Anything that goes bump in the night."

Sam shook his head lightly with a laugh. "Wow." John scowled and looked away, sending a pang of guilt through Sam. He decided to change the subject, backtracking a little. "That must take you forever, going through all those newspapers."

John nodded, relaxing again. "Heh, you're telling me. I used to have a laptop, but now..."

As John trailed off, Sam shuffled his feet. "You know, our library has free access to a bunch of them, more than you could ever find online," he told him. "If you wanna go down there, I can help you search." He didn't know why he offered, but as soon as those words were out of his mouth, he found himself seriously hoping John would accept his help.

"You...you want to help?" John asked hesitantly, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, sure," Sam replied. "I don't have to work today, so why not?"

It was more than that, but Sam kept those thoughts to himself. He wasn't sure of the exact reasons, but he knew how to search, and for some reason, he wanted to help this man in some way. He wanted—He _needed_ to do something that did even a little bit of good for somebody. And Sam was suddenly eager to showoff what he knew about research.

John was giving him a long look, some unidentified emotion just underneath the surface of his eyes.

"Okay, yeah," he finally accepted, his voice gruffer than normal. "Sure. Let's go to the library." Sam couldn't stop the grin the spread across his face.

ooOOoo

They didn't leave for another hour, each of them finishing a cup of coffee and then taking showers first. The timing worked out though, as the library opened later on Saturdays.

Sam knew he was crazy. He didn't even know John at all, except for that very gruesome fact that he killed Sam's own brother. A fact that refused to sink in. But the Warrens trusted him, and Sam couldn't convince himself that they were wrong to do so.

As Sam led John to the library, he was consciously aware of John's presence right next to him. A kind of static filled the air between them and left his left side buzzing. Even though it wasn't exactly a physical sensation, he could _feel_ it, all along his skin.

He realized he was fascinated with the shorter man beside him. John exuded a quiet power, a dark intensity underneath his casual, tough guy exterior. Even though he was shorter than Sam and thinner than he'd remembered, Sam still felt this guy could kick his ass.

And there was something to him that seemed almost melancholy, a hidden sadness that Sam wouldn't know how to touch.

But maybe Sam understood it. He thought it might be loneliness. A kind that mirrored his own.

Beside him, John's step suddenly faltered for a half-second, and it wasn't until Sam caught sight of the brunette that passed them that he realized why. Sam smirked, not surprised at John's behavior. "What? She's hot," John cracked, seeing Sam's expression. "You've got a _beautiful _world here, Sammy."

At the library, they went straight to a row of computers and slid into side by side seats. Sam started to direct John to the archive link, but the older man seemed to know how to find it from doing it so often before. They restricted their search to the past two weeks, and John gave him some key words to search for – for example, "deaths" preceded with "mysterious" or "multiple" or "gruesome."

"Fun," Sam remarked dryly.

"Yeah, well, there'd be a whole lot more 'fun' if someone like me wasn't out there stopping it," John remarked.

"So, that's what you do? Go out there and fight the forces of evil?"

"That's the comic book version of it, yeah."

"You do this alone?"

John made some deep noises in his throat before he spoke. "Well, my dad does this too."

"Yeah?" Sam frowned, having never heard John's father mentioned during the events in St. Louis and knowing that he wasn't around when John "exorcised" Sam's room. His father may hunt as well, but they apparently don't together, at least not always. "Where is he now?" he asked curiously.

He was answered with a shrug. "He, uh, needed a break after a bad job," John said.

Sam could hear it in his voice. "You don't know where he is, do you?"

"Not really, no," John replied sharply, keeping his eyes staring at the computer screen in front of him.

"Oh." Sam knew he shouldn't ask, but he couldn't help himself. "Doesn't that get lonely?"

The rush of emotions that fell over John's face told him he had hit the target. The shorter man refused to look at him as he clamped his jaw. "You have to make choices," John told him eventually, speaking in a slow, deliberate manner. "In my line of work, some things are more important."

Sam raised his eyebrows at the implications. It occurred to him that this guy made it his mission to hunt down those that hurt others, but in the process he would have had to give up any semblance of a normal, personal life.

That is, he did if he were actually telling the truth--which Sam inexplicably found himself beginning to believe.

He couldn't comprehend, though, a life constantly on the road, a completely solitary existence. At least truckers had a home to go home to. "But still, that's..."

"Besides," John continued, interrupting him. He gave Sam a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth pointing up into a smirk. "There are a lot of lovely ladies out there, just waiting for me to meet them."

"I'm sure there are," Sam replied with a half snort, relieved by the subject change.

They fell silent for a few moments, and then John spoke again. "Like you wouldn't believe," he went on.

"Uh-huh. I bet." Sam typed in a new search string and waited for the results.

"Incredible hotties. I mean..._man_. California babes, farmer's daughters, southern belles..."

Sam grinned but otherwise ignored him as he turned his attention back to the computer screen. Fortunately, the results weren't nearly as numerous as in his Winchester search. He attacked it the same way though, going down the list and skimming the article each link produced.

_Teen shot by sister._ _Wedding crashed by food poisoning. 3 die in car accident. Lighthouse keeper disappear. _

Sam stopped and turned to the other man. "Hey, lighthouses are notoriously haunted, aren't they?"

"Yeah, why?" John asked, his eyes flickering across his own computer monitor.

"A man disappeared at one up in Oregon."

John looked at him and frowned thoughtfully. "That could be something. What does it say?"

"Uh..." Sam said, scanning the article. "Caretaker Walter James disappeared while working. No body was found...No reason for him to leave. Left wife and two kids...No signs of struggle or theft."

"Alright, sounds like I've got myself a gig." John pushed himself away from the computer and stood up. "Can you print that for me?"

Sam quickly complied and handed him the sheet the printer spit out. "Great, thanks," John said. "If I hit the road right away, I could get there by dark."

Sam stood up beside him, shifting on his feet. "So...that's it, then?"

"Yeah, guess so." John stared at the printout, but if he was reading it, his eyes weren't moving.

They kept mostly quiet as they walked back towards the apartment. Sam wasn't sure what to say, and he couldn't decipher the feelings that were swirling around in his stomach.

"Hey, thanks for helping out," John said suddenly, breaking the silence.

"No problem," Sam said back.

He chewed the inside of his cheek as he tried to think of something to add. But before he knew it, they were back at the apartment, and John was gathering his things – namely a small, already-packed bag and a few stray items like a tube of toothpaste and the knives Sam had taken from him the night before. Sam stood back as he roamed the apartment, looking for anything he may have missed. The search only lasted a couple of minutes and then John was shoving his hands into his pockets, saying goodbye to Sam and the Warrens as they all gathered by the door.

"Sam, uh..." John stalled with a slight grimace. "Thank you for...you know, making sure I was okay last night. I know I was kinda an ass."

Sam nodded in reply, quietly accepting his thanks. John held out his hand, and Sam shook it firmly.

"Well, I guess..." John trailed off and glanced away. "I'll see you around," he tried again, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Sam's mouth moved of its own accord, and the words popped out before he realized what he was asking. "Can I come with you?"

* * *

_I know, I'm crazy, but I wanted to try this. Please review! Let me know if I've dug myself in too deep._

_I almost didn't include the scene where Sam says Dean's name out loud, and I hope that didn't take you out of the story. I thought it would be kinda interesting to show that Sam subconsciously knows it's Dean -- but let me know if it left you thinking, "Wait, Sam calls him Dean, but he STILL doesn't get it?" _

_...Cause, yeah, I'm dragging this baby out. _


	13. Chapter 13

Note: You probably should consider this story kind of like a multi-episode arc (as if Sam's memory loss is introduced in one episode, and isn't resolved until two or three episodes later). I really wanted Sam to see this side of the Supernatural life from his new perspective, without the added angst of knowing who John really is.

But I _completely_ understand if you don't have the patience for that. So I'll make a deal with you!

If you only want to read the good parts, wait until I change the story summary. After I post the chapter with the Big Reveal, I'll put in the summary something like, "How will Sam react when he finds out the truth?" If you see that, you'll know that the last chapter I posted is (hopefully) what you were waiting for. I know it's kinda silly, but I hate feeling like I'm stringing everyone along!

* * *

John looked up at him sharply. "What?" 

"Can I come with you?" Sam repeated more earnestly. This time he knew what he was saying.

He watched as John glanced over at Rebecca for help, but she had a small smile playing on her lips. He looked back at Sam, a deep crease in between his eyebrows. "Uh, you...You really want to come with me?"

"Yes."

"But...Why?" He didn't look upset, exactly, but his face was strangely pale.

Sam wasn't sure how to explain it. "I want to see what it is you do," he eventually said. "I could really use—" He stopped, reluctant to finish that sentence. "I don't know, it just seems like a road trip would be kinda fun," he amended.

John was still trying to comprehend his request. "What about your job?"

"It's a supermarket – they'll survive a week without me. Besides, I've never taken a day off, so I'm due for a break."

Sam was expecting him to turn him down. After all, if he had been lying to him about demons and werewolves – a _very_ definite possibility - it'd be a lot harder to keep that up with Sam actually there by his side.And more than that, Sam wasn't sure how John, a loner, would feel about Sam tagging along.

"Um...Okay."

Sam felt his eyes widen. "Really?" John nodded tightly. "Wow, alright. Let me pack." He bounced on the balls of his feet, everything within him rising with sudden excitement, and then spun around to dash to his room before John could change his mind.

"You're bonding, aren't you?" he heard Rebecca ask John with a self-satisfied tone. John mumbled a reply, one Sam couldn't hear as he stepped into his bedroom.

It only took Sam five minutes to throw a couple changes of clothes and some essentials into a duffle bag. He also packed his laptop – he never went anywhere far without it. After that came a quick call to the grocery, telling them he wouldn't be in that week. Of course his manager was a bit disgruntled at the late notice, but Sam knew even if he were fired, it was far from the end of the world. After all, he had been planning on quitting for a long time now.

When he came back out, he could tell John was still uncertain, worried. "This will be dangerous, you know," he told him.

"I'll let you do all the dirty work," Sam replied easily, spreading his hands out. He couldn't explain it – maybe it was that "psychic ability" the shopkeeper told him about – but he felt an innate trust in John. He knew instinctively that he would watch his back, that he could put up a good, powerful fight when needed.

Sam had to stop himself. He was dangerously close to thinking as if monsters and ghosts were real.

He said goodbye to the Warrens – after promising Rebecca that he would check in everyday – and then he and John left. John led him around the corner of the block, and for the first time, Sam saw John's car – a classic Chevy Impala.

"Hey, nice ride," Sam remarked.

John grinned at him then. "You like that?" Going around to the driver's side, he tugged open the backseat door and tossed his bag inside. Sam did the same thing on the passenger side.

They each slid into the front seat, John behind the wheel and Sam into the passenger side. As Sam settled into his seat, he was surprised by how comfortable it was. It almost felt as if it were already molded to his body shape. Sam mentally whistled to himself, impressed by the classic car. It wasn't flashy, but it had finesse and attitude, fitting in perfectly with what – admittedly little – Sam had picked up from John's personality.

Once they were settled, John stuck the key into the ignition, but then he paused. For a moment he stared hard at the steering wheel, keeping his hand unmoving on the key. Sam waited uneasily, worried that he was having second thoughts. The air had suddenly grown thick, tense.

Then John glanced over at him and finally twisted his hand. In the next instant, the car roared into life.

Sam found himself thrumming along with the car's rumbling engine, and even his leg bounced in rhythm. His heart and blood found new life as a sense of adventure filled him. As the car pulled away from the curb, his mind pulled away from his apartment, his job, his old and upcoming life as a student, his future as a lawyer. He knew his mind wouldn't return to those subjects until the car returned him to that same curb.

"How long will this take?" he asked John.

"Well that depends. A couple of days, maybe a week."

"All right, cool," he said casually, secretly hoping it would be closer to a week. He felt like a little kid almost, with a big brother who was taking him to Disneyland. He knew it was insane, thinking that way, but he was too anxious to care.

He sat back and enjoyed the scenery that passed by his window, watching as sights he walked by every day flew by in an instant. Within minutes they were out of town.

It wasn't until they had passed the city limits that Sam allowed himself to ask questions - to acknowledge this temporary change in his life. He started simple.

"You still have a _cassette_ player?"

"Shut it," John instantly replied.

"What? I didn't say anything," he said innocently.

"I could hear it in your voice."

Sam laughed. This felt good. _He_ felt good. "Well, it's not everyday I see such an antique."

"That's odd. Your piehole - I'm still hearing it."

Sam gave him a cheeky grin in response. Rarely had he enjoyed such easy banter, not since Jessica. But even with Jessica, she had always been good at teasing him – it was one of the things he loved about her – but he never really learned how to tease her back.

Sam stretched his legs out as far as space would allow. "Hey, why don't you pull out the roadmap," John said, nodding towards the glove compartment. "So we know where we're going."

Sam popped the compartment open and reached in for the map. As he pulled it out, a small box spilled open and a shower of cards fell onto his lap. "So which one of these is your real identity?" he asked with a smirk as he gathered the cards into a stack. He glimpsed ID cards for various government agencies, credit cards assigned to different names, and even a couple business cards – just more of the same mixture he had found in his wallet.

"Not in there," John replied slyly.

"Yeah, didn't think so," Sam said, shoving the stack back into the glove box. He took a look at the foldout map and saw it was for the Pacific Northwest. "So you pretty much keep in this area?"

John glanced over. "Ah, nah, I go all over. I was in Nevada last week, Michigan before that. The other maps are in the backseat."

"Wow. You drive everywhere?"

"Hate flying," John told him. "Besides, I've got everything I need right here."

Sam nodded, impressed by the thought. John got to explore, see the entire country. He imagined that would lose its appeal after a while, but even so, at that moment he couldn't help but feel envious. He unfolded the map, creasing it back so that it only showed the area they needed. A mess of red and black ink spread across the paper in front of him, each wriggling line representing a new possibility.

After a few minutes of looking, Sam told him the routes to take. But he didn't put the map away at first, opting instead to follow the roads and highways with his finger to see which towns they ran through. He only spent a few minutes, knowing he couldn't explain what he was doing without embarrassing himself, but he soaked up those names of places he'd never been to into his mind, telling himself that someday he might visit.

ooOOoo

"You're the one Rebecca called about my nightmares, aren't you?" One by one, Sam was slowing going through the questions flying around in his head. They had been in the car for three hours, and that was the first one he finally had the courage to ask.

"What's that?" John asked, cutting himself off from a bad rendition of "Immigrant Song" by Led Zeppelin. "Oh. Yeah...About that..."

"Did you go to Boston?" Sam asked, cutting him off.

"Yeah, I did."

"What happened?"

John shrugged. "Not much."

"Oh..." Sam felt a stab of disappointment and even a little embarrassment go through him. He had started to think that maybe his dreams meant something, but now he realized how foolish that was.

"Did some research, found a Sarah Mitchell who spontaneously combusted on the bridge back in the seventies," John continued. "Dug up her grave, salted her bones, and then made sure nothing happened when those four drunk partiers crossed the bridge. Pretty cut and dry."

"_Oh_," Sam repeated, though with an entirely different emotion. "Wow, really?" He swallowed, almost afraid to ask to ask the next question. "What about the...other one?"

"The werewolves?" He must have seen the worried look on Sam's face because he was quick to grin, wasting no time to explain. "A couple of silver bullets took care of that. Got a few scars in the process, but the family wasn't even touched."

Sam let his shoulders sag in relief. "Oh, thank God..." he breathed. He could still picture the bloody images in his head – the ripping of flesh, the gnashing jaws that tore limbs off - and that brief moment when he realized it could have really happened was completely horrifying.

He turned to John. "Battle scars, huh?"

"Mm-hm," he said with a offhanded shrug. "Male got a piece of my forearm, and the female nicked my back."

"Your back?" It finally occurred to Sam just how dangerous this kind of life would be.

"Yeah. Werewolves don't exactly fight with honor," John said. "They have no problem attacking from behind. Of course," he added with a smirk, "I don't either."

Sam had a sudden thought. "Can I see your arm?"

"Huh?"

"Your arm. You said the werewolves scarred you. Let me see." This could, once and for all, tell him just how ridiculous he was for starting to trust John.

"You don't believe me?"

Sam just gave him a pointed look, cocking an eyebrow.

John looked back at him for a second and then started grumbling incoherently, making irritated noises in his throat. Then, keeping his right hand on the wheel, he used his left hand to push the sleeve up on his right arm, baring the skin underneath.

Sam almost gasped at the sight. Faded streaks – three wide ones and a smaller fourth one – wrapped around the outside of his arm, creating shallow dents in his flesh. The healed white skin contrasted sharply with the tan that covered the rest of his arm, burning an image into the back of Sam's eyelids. Now he understood why he was wearing long sleeves.

"Jesus," he said in an awed whisper. "How does your _back_ look?"

John waved him off. "Not nearly as bad. She barely scraped me." A corner of his lip pressed up into his cheek. "Do you believe me now?"

Sam let out a low breath. "I'm definitely starting to," he said.

They fell into silence for a few moments before Sam spoke again. "So, what does that mean about my dreams?"

"You got the Shining, bro."

Sam chewed on his lip, wondering when his mind would finally give out, overloaded with information just from the past 24 hours. "But...how did you know? And what made you think that I'm, uh, a magnet for all this...stuff? Isn't that what you said?"

John seemed to consider his answer for a moment before he replied. "I don't know for sure why, but...Your life, it...it hasn't been exactly good. And, uh, some people who've experienced traumatic events sometimes end up attracting bad forces. Or they might develop certain psychic connections or abilities. You might have gotten both."

Well, okay, that kind of fit Sam, but it still didn't explain everything. "Not to downplay Jessica's death – I'd do anything to get her back – but lots of people go through traumatic experiences. Why would I be any different?"

"Some people are naturally more...sensitive. Like you." John glanced over at him. "Add that with your situation and..."

"I'm pretty vulnerable," Sam stated flatly.

"Well..."

"Did Rebecca tell you that, or did you know just by looking?"

"What?"

"That I'm that weak."

John tore his eyes from the road to look at him before turning his gaze back. "You are _not_ weak," he said firmly, clenching his jaw. "You..." He trailed off with a short, violent jerk of his head, and didn't finish his thought.

But Sam didn't believe him, and wouldn't have even if John had finished.

"So...Rebecca says you graduated in the top five percent of your class," John said after a moment. "That's awesome, Sam."

Sam would have rolled his eyes at the obvious deflection.But rather than patronizing, John's voice struck him as heartfelt, so he let it go. "Yeah, thanks," he replied.

"Gonna be a hotshot lawyer someday?" John asked with a wide grin.

Sam shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know..." he replied tiredly.

A surprised, consternated look crossed John's face at that. "What do you mean, you don't know?"

"Eh, I'm just not sure that's what I want."

John stared at him for a long moment. Then, his head jutting forward, he burst out, "_What_?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, taken aback. "Why, what's the problem?"

"I just don't—You have this amazing mind, this great career ahead of you..."

Sam let out a half-laugh. "What are you, my guidance counselor?"

John propped his left elbow against his door and leaned his cheek on his hand. "I just..." He scrunched up his eyes and gave a short shake of his head. "You _can't_ waste your life, Sammy."

"But..." Sam stopped, frustrated. It took him a few moments before he could express his thoughts. "That's what I'm afraid I _am_ doing."

John gave him a long look. Then he jerked his head back, turning back to the road. "Don't be stupid."

Sam snorted in surprised annoyance. Who did this guy think he was, telling him what to do?

He really didn't want to spend the rest of the time in a tense silence, so he quickly changed the subject away from him. "So, this is a family business for you?" He immediately winced, wishing he hadn't brought that up. He hadn't meant to, but lately _family _had been lurking at the top of his mind, and it was the first thing he thought of.

John blinked a couple of times. "Uh, yeah...Kinda," he said, with a casual air Sam could tell was fake.

Sam knew it was a sensitive subject, so he veered slightly off, making sure he didn't ask about John's MIA father. "How long have you been doing this?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Since I was a kid."

Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Your whole life?"

John shifted into a defensive stance – not in a physical sense, but a mental one, a visible change that included a squaring of shoulders and a clenched jaw - and nodded stiffly, not looking at him. He looked as though he were preparing himself for insults or sarcastic remarks or critical comments. Sam wondered if he'd heard them before, if that was why he reacted so defensively.

He didn't need to, though. Sam felt nothing but a growing sense of awe.

* * *

Hee, you guys still with me?

Next chapter, coming right up!


	14. Chapter 14

The drive up to Oregon was, predictably, long and tedious. They only stopped a handful of times, timing their bathroom breaks to coincide with gas refills and snack stops. Sam appreciated each opportunity to stretch his legs, but he was just as eager to get back on the road so they could reach Oregon that much sooner.

The two men talked back and forth, and Sam was starting to understand at least a few more pieces of the mysterious hunter from the bits he gathered from their conversations. It was far from a complete picture, but Sam's curiosity refused to wan.

He learned mostly only the trivial facts. His taste in music for one, obviously. His extensive knowledge of daytime TV, even though he professed to hate it passionately. His cell phone, which never rang the entire time they were in the car. The road miles he put on his beloved car because he refused to fly.

Sam knew his preoccupation with the man and his lifestylewas very strange, if not unhealthy. It wasn't an attraction – thank God, because wouldn't that be all kinds of awkward? – but it was a fascination. Maybe it came from the fact that John wasn't anything like anybody Sam knew from Stanford, wasn't like any of his friends or any of the people that surrounded him. And yet...maybe that was why Sam felt comfortable around him.

Of course, who wouldn't find a ghost hunter's life at least somewhat interesting?

They finally arrived to their destination around nine that evening. Sam felt his heart rate speed and his stomach clench in anticipation the instant they passed the town limits.

But instead of heading for the lighthouse, John pulled into the parking lot of a roadside motel.

"Wait, what are we doing?" Sam asked just as John was about to jump out of the car.

"We're getting a hotel room," the older man replied with a tone that said "duh."

"Aren't we going to the lighthouse?"

"Nah, we'll do that tomorrow."

"But...I thought people did things like this at night." Sam immediately felt stupid, but he was still so thrown off-guard he didn't regret his question.

"You watch too much TV," John scoffed. "Unless it's a nocturnal creature, it doesn't matter what time of day we go. They usually don't care." Sam assumed "they" encompassed the entire gamut of monsters and supernatural forces, and he had to wonder what that included. Just what all was out there? "And besides," John went on, "Police are a lot less suspicious of possible trespassers in broad daylight. They see a parked car during the day, they assume there's a good reason for it. At night, not so much."

"Oh."

"Yeah, so we'll settle in for the night, order some takeout, and get a full night of beauty sleep. That all right?" Sam nodded, and John left to rent a room.

The room was neat and clean but had a musty smell. Even with all the lamps turned on, the lighting remained dim and orange, which was probably for the better considering the tacky floral pattern covering the bedspreads on the double beds. The TV set was the oldest model Sam had seen in recent memory, perched on a set of drawers, and it got only six static-y channels, including the "free HBO" advertised on the motel sign.

While Sam set his laptop case on top of the cheap wooden desk, John claimed the bed closest to the television. He picked up the phone, announced that he was starving, and thirty minutes later, a pizza was delivered to their door.

Sam paid for it and brought it inside, setting it on top of the bedside table in between the two beds. He had to grin when he flipped the lid open. "Hey, you like pepperoni and green peppers too?" he asked, incredulous and pleased at the same time.

"Hm? Oh, yeah," John quickly replied. "I hope that's all right with you."

"Yeah, definitely," Sam said brightly, pulling out a slice. "It's actually my favorite."

"Oh, hey," John said just as Sam was about to sit down with his pizza. "I spent an extra ten dollars just so we had a hotel with internet access. You wanna see what you can find on this lighthouse?" Sam looked back at him, his curiosity sparked, as he explained. "Look up its history, see if there's any violence or tragedy connected to it."

Sam nodded and eagerly fired up his laptop. Detective work – he could really get into that.

Behind him, John got up from his bed and perched at the end of Sam's, which was closer to the desk. Sam quickly typed in a couple of searches and read a loud several of the results in a list. He and John volleyed ideas back and forth as they went through the few stories that came up, most of them unrelated or irrelevant.

But eventually they found the information they were looking for. The lighthouse, built in 1890, ran smoothly until 1922, when the then-current keeper committed suicide by leaping from the top of the lighthouse, his body lost forever in the ocean below. His wife took over for him, but she died of pneumonia five years later.

A few more lighthouse keepers followed, but they never stayed long, and before long, the lighthouse was closed. Over the years, the abandoned building fell into disrepair, suffering under the effects of time, weather, and vandalism, until just recently when Walter James, who made his living restoring historic buildings, bought the property. One day he went there alone to do a quick, cursory inspection. He never came back.

Sam sat back, letting himself enjoy a feeling of accomplishment, just so he wouldn't have to focus on the recent tragedy that left a woman a widow and her two children fatherless.

"Well, that just made our job harder," complained John behind him. When Sam shot him a questioning look, he explained. "It sounds like a haunting, but if there's no body, we can't salt and burn the bones. We'll have to find another way."

ooOOoo

Sam barely slept that night, his mind burning at full capacity with thoughts of the next day's hunt. Whenever he dozed off, he was assaulted with images of monsters and spirits, and even though it didn't frighten him as a regular nightmare would, it still left his heart pounding.

When morning finally arrived, signaled by the crack of light that pushed itself between the closed curtains, Sam jumped out of bed, eager to end the night and anxious to start the day. Even though it was rude to do so, he took a quick shower, almost hoping the sound of water would waken John. It turned out the shower took longer than it should have - the water pressure was equivalent to someone spitting at him - but when he came out, he was relieved to find John sitting up, staring groggily at the weather report on TV.

As the two got ready, John gave him tips, teaching him what to expect. He showed him his EMF detector, which would alert them when a supernatural force was near. Rock salt was good for repelling ghosts, and he would have a filled shot gun just for that purpose. He even gave Sam a knife, just in case he was wrong and it was something other than a ghost.

They left the motel before eight, and following the directions Sam copied from online, they found the lighthouse within minutes. They rolled to a stop at the end of the gravel path that led up to the property. The towering structure was perched at the edge of a rocky cliff, and the ocean was so far below it was obscured from view, although they could hear its dull roar.

And at the base of the lighthouse was a parked blue car.

John cursed under his breath, slapping the base of his hand against the steering wheel. It wasn't a violently angry reaction but an annoyed one, and Sam had to admit he was just as frustrated that his first, er, hunting adventure might be stalled.

"Should we come back later?" he asked.

John stared at the lighthouse for a moment. "No," he replied. "Whoever's in there might need our help."

"Or, he could call the cops on us." So maybe that was a little bit of an exaggeration, but Sam had always been a rule follower, and he broke into a sweat at the very thought of getting into trouble.

"If they kick us out, they kick us out," John replied glibly. He then reached over and popped the glove compartment open, pulling out the box of cards he stored in there. Opening it up, he grabbed a handful and flipped through them until he found what he was looking for.

"Ah, here we go," he said, flourishing a business card around so that Sam could read it. _Hank Lohman, Property Inspector, Staten Appraisals Co. _

"Not bad, huh?" John remarked proudly. "All right, let's go."

Together they climbed out of the car, quietly pushing their doors shut. John walked back to his trunk, motioning Sam over. "Okay, here's what we're going to do," he said as he popped open the trunk.

Sam sucked in a startled breath when he saw what lay inside. Weapons piled on top of weapons, every kind he could think of and many he never knew existed. What had he gotten himself into? He realized sardonically why they had kept their bags in the back seat on the way up.

John bent down and picked up a shotgun which he then tossed to Sam. Startled, Sam caught it, staring at it as if he had just thrown him a python. "I'm going to go on up there, have a quick chat with whoever's in there, see if I can get them to leave. You stay down by the base, keep a look out. If I need you, I'll call out, otherwise stay hidden."

"A-a gun? But-" Sam protested. When John had said he'd have a gun, he didn't know John would give it to _him_. "I don't even know how to use it!"

"Well, we can't go in unarmed, and we certainly can't go in carrying a frickin' shotgun around," John pointed out. "So one of us has to keep guard. And since I'm the better liar, that leaves you." He patted Sam's arm. "You'll figure it out."

Sam's mouth flopped around like a fish's. "What if my aim's horrible?"

"Trust me, it won't be."

That did little to reassure Sam, but John seemed satisfied. He led Sam up the gravel driveway, although they stayed to the side where the grass softened the sound of their footsteps, and around to the back of the lighthouse, the side opposite the door, away from the road. "If you hear me shout, come running. All right? And aim for the ghost, not anyone with a heartbeat," he said with a smirk. "Believe me, you can tell," he added when Sam opened his mouth to ask that very question.

"Relax, Sammy," he went on. "Even if you hit one of us, it won't kill us." Sam stared at him, his eyes wide. Just the thought of hitting someone horrified him. "It'd hurt like a bitch though," John added as an aside, his lips twisted into a half-smile.

Sam let out a harsh laugh and gripped the gun tighter. Once again he wondered what he'd gotten himself into.

John gave him one last pat on the shoulder before he turned around and disappeared into the building.

Once he was gone, Sam sighed, his shoulders sagging. He didn't know what he was expecting, but waiting alone in the shadows holding a gun wasn't it.

But he only let himself "relax" for that brief moment before he straightened, holding the shotgun at the ready (or at least the closest approximation he could come up with). He strained to hear, but the only sounds his ears could pick up were the waves breaking against the rocks below and the wind rustling the leaves and branches in the trees. Would he be able to hear John's voice over these noises? He imagined the walls of the lighthouse were pretty thick, and he could only hope John knew what he was doing.

The minutes ticked by slowly, the time filled with Sam jumping at every cracking twig. He slowly made his way around the side of the lighthouse, being careful to remain hidden from the road, inching closer to the door. He thought maybe he could hear better through the door than he would through the walls, and he'd be a few seconds closer just in case John needed his help.

The wind whipped around him, blowing his hair in all directions. Sam spared a few glances at the roiling ocean behind and below him. He was still several safe yards from the edge of the cliff and inching farther away, but with the lighthouse towering over him, he couldn't help but shudder at the thought of falling into the chasm below. He lifted his gaze upwards, his eyes following the curved wall all the way to the top until his neck was craned painfully backwards. It would be one hell of a drop.

And at least one person knew what it was like to plummet all the way down. How could anyone do that willingly, even a depressed lighthouse keeper? And if Walter James _had _been pushed by the ghost, like John suspected, how much more terrifying would that be? That poor man – what a horrible way to end. Sam felt sick to his stomach, unable to stop his mind from picturing a body flung from the top, flailing as he plunged through the air.

He almost hoped John would call out to him, just so he could stop his morbid thoughts. _Get a hold of yourself,_ he told himself.

The longer the time stretched, the more tense Sam grew. The wind seemed to grow stronger and the sounds of the violent waves filled his ear canals with an almost physical force, leaving him with a vague yearning to drain his ears. He shifted his feet, shifted the shotgun in his hands, ran his hand through his hair and over the gun barrel. As he waited, he wondered whether he would hear John shout or see the owner of the blue car leave first. He desperately hoped it would be the latter.

And then he heard it. John's voice, loud and clearer than he expected. "Sam! _Now_!" he shouted, and Sam realized it was outside, not in, coming from somewhere above him. He jerked his head up, but the angle was too sharp for him to see. But the voice came from the small deck or catwalk that circled the top, and in the next instant Sam was sprinting for the door.

He yanked the door open and dashed inside, heading straight to the spiral staircase that led to the top. Taking two steps at a time, he ran up the stairs, almost stumbling a couple of times. He was winded by the time he reached the top, but he barely noticed that, or the way his heart pounded in his chest. Fortunately, he never lost his grip on the shotgun, and he cocked it as he rushed into the room at the top.

He ignored the huge light that took up the middle of the room, or the room itself which was encased in glass. Instead, he raced straight to the door that led to the balcony outside. His heart stopped instantly.

John was leaning over the rail, positioned right over the ocean. As Sam got closer, he realized he was clutching a body, a man who was dangling over the side of the lighthouse. The only thing keeping him from plummeting to the ground below was John's grip.

Over the roar of the wind, he heard John and the man he held shouting at each other, both their voices frantic, the man's close to panicked. John was commanding him to quit moving around, but the man was having trouble keeping his legs from kicking, desperately trying to find purchase on any surface. But there was nothing but air. The entire width of deck extended out from the structure of the lighthouse, leaving the wall far out of reach.

Sam shot forward. "John!" he shouted, alerting him of his presence.

"Sam!" John cried back, not moving his focus from the man hanging from his arms. "Is it still here?"

Sam glanced around the deck. "I don't see anything!"

"Help me, then!" he barked, and in the next moment, Sam was standing next to him, reaching over the rail to grab a hold of the man's arm. He dropped the shotgun next to his legs, making sure it pointed away just in case it discharged, so he could use both hands to grasp the man, getting a better grip.

His heart pounded as he struggled for leverage, trying to snake his arms through John's, trying to help support the man's weight. He could see sweat breaking out on John's forehead, his arms pulled taut, his knuckles already white. Sam bent far over the rail, trying not to the think of the drop below, ignoring the drop of sweat that fell through the air. The metal pole dug into his stomach, making it hard to breathe, but that sensation was better than the dizzying vertigo he was forced to push through.

Yet foremost in his mind, the only thing he though of, was the man struggling below them. One slip, and he would crash into the surf below. Sam tightened his grip, refusing to give him that death sentence.

"Count of three!" John shouted to him. "One...Two...Three!"

At three, the two of them heaved, struggling to pull the man up. Sam felt his arms strain with his weight as he and John tugged him upwards, using the railing for leverage. As they lifted him, the man helped by grabbing onto the rail once it was within reach, and as soon as that happened, the process went a lot quicker as John and Sam pulled him up and over the top until they stumbled backwards as he spilled onto the floor at their feet.

John hunched over, breathing heavily with an arm wrapped around his middle. The man, a guy around forty years, was gathering himself together, his breath also coming out in loud gasps as he struggled into a sitting position. Sam watched with wide eyes, his adrenaline still pumping through his system, unable to believe what had just happened.

"You all right?" he asked, unsure which man he was talking to. They both nodded though, to Sam's relief.

"It's...It's not the keeper," John panted. "It's his wife."

"What?" Sam asked, confused. Did he mean the ghost? "But she just died from-"

The words were yanked from his throat when he saw her.

A woman, wearing a simple, old-fashioned grey dress, appeared suddenly on the opposite side of John, materializing right before his eyes. Her sharp eyes, wild and angry, focused immediately on John's bent back and her mouth twisted into a snarl. Then she lifted her arms and rushed at him.

She reached out and upwards, planting her hands on John's shoulder blades, on the verge of shoving him. Sam shouted out a warning while in the same breath he reached down to sweep the shotgun into his hands, swinging it up and training it on the apparition.

At his shout, John jerked up and jumped aside just as Sam aimed and squeezed the trigger. The salt pellets exploded from the gun straight through the ghostly woman.

She shrieked, a piercing sound that he heard inside his head as much as in his ears. But she also flickered, and when Sam shot again, she disappeared instantly, even as the echoes of her scream reverberated in Sam's rib cage. Sam jerked his gaze around, unable to breathe, desperately looking to see if she had darted to a different spot.

But they were alone again.

Sam's hands shook as he lowered the gun.

It had happened so quickly, too quickly for his mind to think. He had just shot a gun. He had just shot a gun mere inches from John's head.

"Nice, Sammy!" John praised him, but Sam barely heard him.

Then everything came back into sharp focus as Sam sucked in a long, sharp breath. "Holy..." he started before taking in another gulp of air. He almost dropped the gun, but John saw it just in time and took it from him.

The woman had been so angry, he'd felt it deep to his core. And she was right there, so close to pushing John right over that sharp drop. And the third man—if they hadn't been there, he'd be gone. Dead. Because of the woman, the ghost, the transparent apparition of a dead person. The ghost Sam shot--narrowly missing John's head. He hadn't even thought about it, just let his instinct aim for him.

Would a skull stop pellets of salt blasted at close range?

While Sam was trying to calm his racing heart, John was holding the shotgun out, waving it around the area the ghost had been standing.

"Let's go, let's go," he shouted, urging them on with his free arm. "Get out of here! Before she comes back!"

For a moment, Sam could only stare at him, atthe way he was poised and readied.His back wasto Sam and the other man. Guarding them. He was tense, but also steady, in control. He knew what he was doing.

"Sam! C'mon!" he barked over his shoulder.

Then Sam snapped into action. He turned to the other man still on the floor, ready to help him up and push him along.

The man was watching them, his face pale and his chest still heaving. "You're not really a property inspector, are you?" he finally asked.

ooOOoo

"Oh my God, that was _awesome_!" Sam was almost giddy, the adrenalin still coursing through his blood as he and John sped away from the lighthouse. "I didn't think I could shoot, but I did...and it _worked_! And that guy—we saved his life!"

John listened with that cocky grin of his. Sam grinned with him, trying to force his body to calm down as they drove back to their hotel.

"Wow..." he said again. "That was a freakin' _ghost_ up there!"

"I _told _you," John replied.

After Sam had helped the other man to his feet, John had quickly ushered them inside and down the stairs, warning them it wouldn't take long before the spirit drew in enough energy to manifest again. Soon they were outside again, gasping in new air, safely on the ground this time.

As they were leaving, John told the man, a contractor Walter had hired weeks ago, to stay away for a few days while they took care of the "problem."

Taking care of the problem turned to be much easier than they had originally thought it would be, and it was almost anti-climatic. John referred to it as simple cleanup.

From the appearance of the woman, they assumed that the lighthouse keeper's wife in a rage had thrown her husband over the side. John claimed that the first time she manifested, she had screamed about betrayals just before she tried to push the contractor over the edge. After the death of her husband, John speculated, she spent the remaining five years of her life in torment until her mind was so twisted with anger and an indignant denial of guilt that, even though she died peacefully, her spirit wasn't at rest. And so she haunted the lighthouse, the scene of her crime, with the same rage that had pushed her into killing her husband.

And since the woman had died of natural causes, her body wasn't lost as her husband's had been. They needed only to track it down. So they drove back to their hotel room, and with the help of Sam's laptop, they found her name in the records of an old cemetery located a few blocks from the lighthouse.

They waited until several hours after nightfall. This time, the cover of dark would help them - it'd be hard to explain why they were digging up a grave nearly a century old. Once the darkness of night was total, they traipsed through the old tombstones, each of them holding onto a shovel as John shone his flashlight at possible graves. Unfortunately, the records neglected to list the location of each plot, which meant they had to comb the entire cemetery, an area over an acre in size.

John had a knack for knowing which tombstones came from what era, and those he shined his light on all had death dates within a decade or two of 1927, the year Gladys Burton died of pneumonia. Since Sam didn't have a flashlight, he spent most of the time glancing at the road, fearful of any passing lights. Luckily, the road was more like a country lane with very little traffic, and the cemetery sat far enough back that the chances of being spotted were low. He hoped.

They had walked through two-thirds of the graveyard when John finally found the right stone. Together they dug through the dirt, a long, tiring process that left them both sweaty by the time they hit wood. John used the blade of his shovel to break through the top of the coffin. Sam almost made a comment about respect for the dead, but then he realized the woman had killed two men and had tried to kill at least two more.

From his bag John pulled out a canister and tipped it over the grave, pouring a stream of salt into the hole he created. Next came a container of lighter fluid which he emptied, the liquid splashing over the bones and salt below. Then he took out a box of matches and struck one, the tip bursting into flame.

John stared into the small blaze for a moment, a mesmerized, determined look to his eyes. Then he flicked it into the ground, the light creating an orange trail in the darkness as it fell. When it hit the ground below, flames erupted with a small burst of light and then shrank back down as they slowly consumed the remains left in the coffin.

Once the fire burned itself out, Sam and John shoveled the dirt back into the hole. With the coffin now broken open, there wasn't enough dirt to fill the hole completely and it left a shallow dip. Not that they worried too much about it – even if they had left the ground even, there would still be an area of soft, broken dirt suspiciously devoid of grass.

"Well, that's that," John said, leaning against his shovel. "Mission accomplished."

So that was it. It was over.

Sam stared at the sunken ground.

* * *

_Thank you all for reviewing! It makes this whole process so much easier!_

_Let me know of any mistakes I've made (I keep catching continuity errors, and who knows how many I've missed), and especially if this stops being believable. You can also tell me if the anvil I'm hitting over your head is too heavy - but I already know that. ;)_


	15. Chapter 15

_Thank you all for your amazing reviews. I couldn't do this without you!_

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They drove back to the hotel in silence. It was late, and Sam figured John was pretty tired. Sam was tired too, but he didn't feel like sleeping. 

They lumbered into their hotel room, neither of them saying a word. Sam had so much to say, but he wasn't ready yet. He flicked the wall lamp on, flooding the room in orange light, and John went past him, his back hunched until he dropped his backpack onto the floor beside his bed.

Sam claimed the bathroom first, buying himself some time. He was afraid that if John went before him, he'd be in bed by the time Sam came out after his turn.

Once inside, he did his business, washed his hands, and then rinsed his face of all the sweat and grime digging in the graveyard left. He then meant to brush his teeth, but he realized he had left his toothbrush in his bag.

As he pulled open the bathroom door to retrieve it, he caught John changing out of his t-shirt.

The air flew from his lungs.

John had his back to him, and Sam's eyes were immediately drawn downwards. In the middle of his right side were four large claw marks. They matched the ones on his forearm--only they were deeper, longer, stretching across nearly three-quarters of his back in an arc about the width of Sam's hand. The scars disfigured his back grossly, striking against otherwise mostly-smooth skin.

At Sam's gasp, John spun around in alarm, turning his back away from him, while at the same time he struggled to pull the t-shirt back down. But he wasn't quick enough. On his front, Sam saw another deep gash running across his abdomen.

"What the hell!" Sam exclaimed in horror.

John was unfazed as he drew the shirt down to his waist. "Are you finished with the bathroom?" he asked.

Sam came closer, ignoring him.

"How are you even _alive_?" he said in a harsh, astonished whisper. Those marks had been impressive, terrifyingly so.

"It's no big deal," John ground out. Sam stared at him, dumbfounded.

John gazed back, and then after a moment, pushed himself past. "My turn," he said before locking himself into the bathroom.

After a moment, Sam stripped to his own nightwear, his movements slow as his mind turned over the images of John's scars. He thought about the day they just had, thought about the werewolves and ghosts and everything else John has faced. Now it was all real to him, and now he understood what it all meant. When the other man finally came out of the bathroom, Sam continued to stare at him.

John saw that and rolled his eyes. "I told you, it's a dangerous job."

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but John cut him off. "Don't even start, all right?" It annoyed him, but Sam relented, clamping his mouth shut.

However, a few minutes later just as he was about to settle into bed, he opened it again. He would avoid the subject of John's back, but he wasn't ready to give up on the other questions that had been plaguing him. He hesitated, sitting on the edge of the bed with the covers drawn back.

"Do I know you?" he asked.

John glanced at him sharply, and Sam continued. "Before this, I mean. Did we know each other?"

"Why would you think that?" John asked, tilting his head.

"I don't know," he replied uncomfortably. "I just feel like I know you."

"But...how would you?" John pointed out.

Sam looked down at his lap. It seemed to him John was avoiding answering, but he didn't blame him. "Well, I was thinking that maybe—you said this was a family business, right?" John's eyebrows came together, and he nodded slowly. "So, I don't know—I just thought that, since my brother was this murderous psycho, and I have these psychic powers or whatever, maybe your family knew my family. Like, maybe they were rivals or enemies, or something."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Huh?"

Rushing forward, Sam tried to explain. "My mind repressed every memory of my family--and I can tell there's something dark about it. Even the psychic at this new age store sensed there was something wrong with me."

Sam frowned then, unable to stop himself. "Is that why you kept an eye on me? Were you afraid I'd do something to Rebecca and Zach?

"_What?_ No! I told you, it's because--"

"Yeah, I know what you said, but why me then? Are you telling me you go all across the country checking up on anyone who has psychic abilities?"

"Well, no, but-"

"And the fact that you killed my brother. There was something that brought you to him, something that told you this might be your thing, right? Otherwise, that's a pretty random coincide-"

"Sam, _stop_ it. That's not it at all."

"Then what is it?"

John took a moment to answer. "You're my responsibility."

"But why?" Sam asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I saved your life, didn't I?"

"Yeah. And Rebecca and Zach."

"Right. I couldn't just let you guys go after that, knowing the dangers you could attract. Not without checking up on you." He shrugged casually. "Simple as that."

Sam frowned and ducked his head again. Was it really that simple? He toyed with the edge of the tacky bedspread.

"What was my brother like?" he asked after a long, silent moment.

John stilled. "What do you mean?"

"What was he like?" Sam repeated, peaking up at John. "I'm sure you remember at least something about him."

"I don't know, Sam, you and Rebecca talked to him more than I did—"

"But I don't remember, and I'm sure as hell not going to ask Rebecca," Sam told him. "You're all that's left."

"I don't know, Sam," John replied again, impatiently, his tone weary.

"Anything. Tell me anything," Sam pleaded. "Please."

"What do you want me to say, Sam? That he was messed up? A freak?"

Sam didn't mean to force it out like that, but that was the response he was expecting. Nodding slowly, he looked at John and swallowed. "Sometimes I feel like I'm a freak."

Immediately John jumped up from his bed, his eyes going wide. "Dammit, Sam," he yelled angrily, towering over him. "You are nothing like that animal! There's not an evil bone in your whole _goddamn_ body."

"But...what if it's in my genes?" Sam asked softly, finally voicing the fear that haunted him ever since he read that article from St. Louis.

John laughed then, a dry, humorless laugh. "Trust me, Sam. You and your brother are completely different."

Apparently that was the only answer he would get. Sam drew in a long breath.

Then he started fluffing the pillow behind his back, arranging it to his liking. He tossed the second one out of the way so he could settle down. "Was he tall like me?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah," John replied, and something in his voice caught Sam's attention. "Real handsome, too," he continued. "Too bad looks didn't run in the family, huh, Sammy?"

Sam narrowed his eyes at him. Then he grabbed his extra pillow and slammed it into John's face. "Jerk."

John pulled the pillow away and wagged his eyebrows at him. "Ooh, touchy."

Settling back into bed, Sam asked curiously, "So is everyone in your family short like you?"

"Short?" John sputtered. "Just because I'm not a beanstalk..."

"Hey, your height is nothing to be ashamed of," Sam went on. "I'm sure plenty of girls appreciate not having to wear heals around you."

By the time John snapped the light off and said good-night, Sam was no longer thinking about St. Louis and freak genes. As he drifted off to sleep, he realized how nice a change that was.

ooOOoo

This time Sam slept through the whole night and a good portion of the next morning. When he finally woke up, sometime after ten, he felt almost good. Even though the bed wasn't too comfortable, it felt like his muscles had melted into the mattress, and he didn't want to move and lose that feeling.

Then he saw that John was already up. He was sitting quietly in the chair, his back slightly hunched over the desk. But he didn't appear to be doing anything, just slumped there with his forearms resting against the desktop. His gaze was pointed at the spot where the desk met the wall, but from his angle, Sam couldn't tell if his eyes were open or not.

Sam pushed himself up until his back was against the headboard. "Hey," he greeted softly. "What's wrong?"

John started, his shoulders jerking up. He turned his head sideways towards Sam, although he kept his gaze downward. "Huh? Nothing," he grunted. Sam watched quietly as he scrubbed his face with his hands and took in a deep breath that filled his chest. And then he was standing up at the foot of Sam's bed, looking down at Sam still leaning against the headboard.

"We're going back to make a sweep of the lighthouse, make sure there's nothing there," he told him. "Then we'll take you back home."

Home. Sam faltered at that. Did he consider the apartment home? He had never batted an eye at that term before – after all, the apartment was where he slept every night, where he kept all his possessions, where he went whenever he wanted to hide from the world. But now, the word "home" jolted him.

"Okay," Sam got out casually, even as his stomach was sinking.

Sam showered and then they packed up their meager belongings strewn across the motel room. They moved silently, not speaking much, the television providing background noise which they largely ignored. Sam's mind was too occupied, filled with churning thoughts he struggled to organize.

They checked out of the motel and the next thing Sam knew, they were back in the Impala. They debated grabbing breakfast but neither of them were hungry, so they headed straight to the lighthouse.

After the day they had yesterday, this visit was less than exciting. Since no one was there, Sam was able to go in with John, armed once again with the shotgun. John carried his EMF detector in his hand, a small black device that looked a lot like a rigged up walkman. He followed the older man as they tracked through the lighthouse, taking the stairs slowly, methodically, John sweeping his device through the air as they moved. The lights on the side never came to life, and the static emitted never spiked past the low, barely audible level.

They went through the entire building and followed the deck all the way around the top without encountering anything. They doubled back, following the same methodical method, but it remained quiet, still. Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, John pronounced it all clear.

"And that's that," John said once they were back in the car.

Sam nodded quietly, staring at the lighthouse that stood before them, proud but empty. "Kinda boring, huh?" John went on. Sam turned to him, disagreeing deeply but unable to say anything.

John looked at him through the corner of his eye, his lips twisted into a smirk. "You get these boring jobs sometimes, but they're not all like this."

"But...a man almost died," Sam protested.

"Hm? Ah, yeah, that's to be expected." John saw the horrified expression on his face and shrugged. "Someone almost dies in almost every case. That's why I'm here," he replied.

He turned to face Sam, his face suddenly serious. "He didn't die though, did he? Thanks to you." He raised his eyebrows pointedly, and Sam knew he was thinking of their conversation last night.

Sam wanted to ask what would have happened if he hadn't been there. But he was too afraid to consider that possibility.

ooOOoo

Sam felt cheated. He'd thought it would have taken up to a week, but instead it had barely lasted 24 hours.

The ride back to Stanford was just as long and tedious as the ride up. They made the same number of stops as last time, grabbing hamburgers through drive-thru and stopping at gas stations that offered public restrooms.

John, however, was more quiet this time around. He said very little, driving with his focus almost solely on the road. Even the volume of the music was turned down at a lower level, although the beats still pounded through the framework of the car. Overall, the energy was muted, even morose. Sam chose to ignore it.

It was almost just as well John was unusually quiet, because Sam had a lot to say, and he forced John into talking. Sam filled the silence with questions, grilling the experienced man about all the different supernatural forces he fought. Sam wanted to know as much as possible. What was real and what was only myth. What was the purpose of each weapon Sam had spotted in the trunk, and even ones he hadn't noticed. Sam rarely stopped talking, and even when he thought he had run out of questions, a few minutes later more would pop into his head.

John dutifully answered his questions, giving him full details and sometimes even expounded on his answers. It was clear to Sam he knew his stuff, an expertise that could only come from a lifetime of experience.

And now Sam knew it was all true, that John really hadn't been lying to him.

A silence finally fell over the car when they saw the road sign proclaiming Stanford 30 miles away. John's answers had grown more and more terse the closer they got until his mouth finally closed as that sign passed their window. Sam also stopped asking questions as his mind switched gears, his stomach suddenly twisting in his gut.

Sam couldn't stop his fingers from tapping a rhythm against the top of his door. His leg bounced up and down frenetically in front of him. The car was suddenly confining, not because of its size but because of the impatience that suddenly coursed through him.

The static between them grew until Sam's skin felt as if it were tingling, and the silence filled his ears with cotton. He almost couldn't stand it, but his mind could no longer hold questions, which trickled away with little notice from Sam.

Then, finally, _finally_, the Impala pulled up along the sidewalk that ran in front of the Warren's apartment. Sam had planned on inviting John in so they could talk, knowing it would be easier inside, where they could sit down face to face with all the time they needed and no distractions.

Instead, just as his hand gripped the handle to open the door, Sam stopped himself. Letting go of the handle, he turned to John and said it outright.

"I want to come with you."

John stared at him blankly for a long moment, and then with cautious surprise as Sam's words sunk in. "Again?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Not again," he stated. "For good."

John froze. "I—I don't understand," he stammered.

Nerves almost stopped Sam from continuing, but he forced himself through. "I want to do this with you. Long term. I want to help."

"_What_? But-but what about school? Your friends?" John asked. "You'd just give that up?"

The sensible side of Sam balked at that, but only slightly. "I just don't think—I don't think that's what I want. There's just...nothing there for me," Sam tried to explain. "But this - you're doing something. You're helping people, saving lives. That's something you can be proud of." As he spoke, he grew more and more energized, his belief in his own words empowering him.

John looked at him, stricken. "No, Sammy, you can't. You can't want this." His face had gone white, and Sam couldn't understand why. "I can't let you..." He trailed off, ducking his head.

Sam felt his heart sink. "You don't want me around," he said. It occurred to him how he was pushing himself into the other man's life like a rude, uninvited houseguest. He knew he shouldn't expect the man to take him on like that, but that didn't stop the hurt feeling that stabbed through him. He had subconsciously assumed they had a great partnership, an easy connection between them, but that easily could have been wishful thinking.

"No, that's _not_ it," he replied, jerking his gaze back to Sam, his eyes blazing. "You just can't..." He stopped and swallowed heavily, his eyebrows scrunching together. "Don't give up your life, Sam."

Sam started shaking his head midway through John's statement. "My life isn't exactly...It's not all what you think it is," he said, feeling frustrated.

"And my life ain't all that it's cracked up to be, either!" John shot back. "Your life is good, normal. _Safe_."

"Maybe. But there's something missing."

"So, what? After all this, you're going to give it up, just because there's something _missing_? My life doesn't come with white picket fences and two-and-a-half kids, Sam."

"Maybe someday it will," Sam replied. "But I'm not ready for that yet, anyway."

John opened his mouth, but Sam went on before he could speak.

"I think you need me."

A shocked, sick change came over John. His jaw twitched and trembled slightly as the rest of his body stilled.

Sam, afraid that he would be insulting him, rushed ahead before he could second-guess himself. "If I hadn't been there to help you out, you might not have pulled that guy up in time. You wouldn't have been able to take care of that ghost if you were still holding onto him, and that ghost would have pushed you right over the edge."

"No. _No_. I don't need you to help me out," John said. "I would've been fine, I would've tried harder."

"He could have died. _You_ could have died," Sam pointed out. "And what about next time? What happens the next time when there's no one there to watch your back?" John shook his head, his clenched jaw showing his refusal to answer.

"I'm coming with you," Sam said.

John turned to look out the windshield, unwilling to face him. "You don't even know me," he said lowly.

"I know enough," Sam told him, leaning a few inches closer to emphasize his point. "I want to do this, John."

John flinched. "No, you don't."

"How do you know?"

"I know what this life does to you!" John exploded, turning around with eyes that burned.

Sam sat back, knowing he couldn't argue with that. John would know more than Sam what sacrifices that kind of life demanded. Sam, though, was willing to find out. He knew, somewhere in his mind, that he could face those sacrifices, that it was worth giving up his current life.

"You don't have to do this alone," he said finally. Earnestly.

Sam knew instantly he had hit a nerve. John swung his head in a tight arc, sucking in his bottom lip, as his eyelids screwed together. He pounded the bottom of his palm against the steering wheel. "You don't know what you're saying," he said in a hush, his low voice contrasting sharply with his physical reaction.

Sam suddenly realized how lonely John was. He saw it in his demeanor, in his eyes, in the way he interacted with others. He knew that loneliness would lessen sharply if he at least had a traveling companion, if he had Sam to talk to and share experiences with, but he suspected the other man was too afraid to allow that to happen. If he honestly thought John didn't want him, he wouldn't have asked. But something told him it wasn't that that caused his hesitation.

Sam thought it might be guilt. He didn't want to draw Sam away from the life he assumed was so much better.

"Can you let me make that decision?" Sam asked softly, without a hint of sarcasm or venom. He was asking a sincere question, and he truly wanted to know if John would allow him that choice.

John gazed out of the windshield and then the side window, wiping a hand down the side of his face.

"Yeah," he finally said, turning his head forward, not looking at Sam. "Yeah. You decide."

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_Please review._


	16. Chapter 16

_Alright fellas, here's the next part! I'm so sorry about the delay, and I'm sad to report that this chapter contains filler. I hope you don't really notice it as filler, but it is filler, and I didn't mean to include it. But, you see...I'm stalling. I'm not ready with the next part yet, and it was either this or silence. _

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Sam felt an immediate rush of relief and gratitude. "All right, then I guess I'm coming with you!" 

He knew he was asking a lot of John by insisting on traveling with him, and now that he knew he could, he hurried to make compromises, trying to ease his sudden guilt. "If I drive you crazy or if you're ever uncomfortable with me around, just tell me and I'll leave," he told him, jerking his arm in demonstration. "All right? This doesn't have to be permanent. I can leave if things don't work out."

The adam's apple in John's throat bobbed up and down. "Well, you gotta pack, don't you?"

Sam grinned. "Yeah, actually, I do." He literally bounced in his seat, suddenly filled with excitement. A thousand thoughts swirled in his head. "Oh, wow, okay. I need to..." He trailed off, mentally making a list of everything he'd need to do. "Oh, man, I hope Becky or Zach are home."

"Yeah, me too," John remarked dryly. "Maybe _they_ can talk some sense into you."

Sam flashed him a grin as he pushed open his car door. "C'mon, you need to help me move."

"Hey, this is a car, not a minivan," John retorted. "And there's no way I'm gonna strap furniture to the roof of my baby."

With a grin, Sam assured him he didn't have any furniture and very little possessions. He had moved into the Warren's already-furnished spare bedroom and never felt comfortable making it his own, so it was still mostly full with the same things that had been there before him. Things that were Rebecca's, not his.

Looking back, he found it strange how few possessions he did have. Mostly just clothes, a few books--but no mementos, no picture frames, nothing personal. He wasn't leaving much of a life behind, he realized wryly.

As they walked up to the apartment, Sam suddenly grew nervous about telling the Warrens he would be leaving. He knew what he was doing was impulsive, definitely not the "responsible" thing to do. It didn't matter what others thought, he told himself. But as he led John through the front door, he started to dread facing them. He worried about their disapproval - especially after they took him in and gave him so much. He cared about them too deeply to just brush off their reactions.

But it turned out he had nothing to worry about.

At his announcement, Rebecca's eyes widened and her lips spread into a broad grin. And then - to Sam's mortification – she burst straight into tears, throwing her arms around him and squeezing tight. Beside her, Zach nodded slowly with a small smile, a satisfied look on his face.

Sam was taken aback, but when he asked why they were being so understanding, they shrugged off his question with vague answers.

"I think this will be good for you," Rebecca told him at length, beaming and sad at the same time. "I'm going to miss you so much though!"

"I'm going to miss you too," Sam replied, still somewhat dazed.

"But I'm so happy you made this decision," she went on. When Sam gave her a questioning look, she gave him a crooked smile. "Sam, it's been over a year since I last saw you excited about anything," she explained, touching his arm. Sam blinked at her, stunned. He wanted to disagree with her but found he couldn't.

John, meanwhile, was leaning against the wall, his face pinched into a tight expression. His mouth opened a couple of times, on the verge of protesting, but ultimately he kept quiet.

"You'll visit, right?" Rebecca pressed him, drawing his attention back.

"Of course!" he assured her. "You know I will."

Rebecca laughed. "No, actually, I don't. You didn't before."

Sam frowned before he realized what she was referring to. "Yeah, well, this time I'll be mentally stable," he told her with a smirk.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zach make his way to John. They had a short conversation, one held in whispered tones Sam couldn't hear, and then Zach clapped a hand to John's shoulder, shaking his head with a sigh.

"I'll hold you to that, you know," Rebecca told Sam, grinning. "If you don't visit, I'll hunt you down myself."

Sam smiled, feeling a growing warmth inside. He really was going to miss them. But at the same time, he felt no regret. He was nervous - his reasoning side cringed at the obvious irresponsibility - but not regretful. This decision felt right to him.

It struck him then that the Warrens weren't nearly as shocked as they should be. They were surprised, certainly, but Sam thought that if a friend of his had announced he was dropping out of school to hunt ghosts, he'd be rather floored by it.

Then again, 48 hours ago he hadn't even known ghosts existed, and yet he here he was, already deciding to devote his life to finding them. At least the Warrens had known of John and his "profession" for over a year.

Sam quickly packed most of his belongings – which mainly entailed throwing as many clothes and necessities that would fit into his suitcase. He also decided to bring a couple of books, stashing them into a bookbag and leaving the rest behind. In the end, he only had three bags: the small suitcase, the bookbag, and the duffle bag he had already packed for their Oregon trip. Considering those bags would be the extent of his belongings, he figured he did pretty good. John would grumble, but there was plenty of room in the Impala.

The Warrens were gracious enough to offer to store the rest of Sam's things for him for an indefinite time, and Sam knew they had his cell number in case they changed their mind. He wondered when he would have his own place to keep his things, and it scared him that he had no idea.

But he can worry about that latter. Maybe this could be his destiny.

ooOOoo

Sam threw his bags into the backseat and slammed the door shut. He caught John watching him over the top of the car. As intense as his gaze was, Sam couldn't read the emotion behind it. It made him uncomfortable not knowing what the other man was thinking.

In sync, they pulled open the front doors and slid into their respective seats. Sam's heart was still racing. This jump into a new life thrilled him and scared him at the same time, and he had to stop himself from fidgeting. John, however, sat stiffly in his seat, his steely gaze turned somewhere between the windshield and Sam, looking at neither.

"I can't let you do this, Sam," he said at length.

"We've already been through this," Sam replied. "You said it was my choice."

"Yeah, well, maybe I take that back," he retorted gruffly.

Sam felt his stomach twist again, afraid of John changing his mind. "Do you not want me here?" he asked, unable to stop the corners of his mouth from dipping.

"I _told_ you, it's not that," John replied, gripping the steering wheel like it was his anchor. "I shouldn't let you do this."

Sam understood then, suddenly recognizing the intense emotion that poisoned his voice. John felt guilty.

"I'm an adult, John. I think I can make my own decisions," Sam told him. "And if I make the wrong one, I can always come back here."

But this only seemed to upset John further. They sat in silence for several long moments as Sam desperately searched for something to say.

"Fine," John said at last. "But if you change your mind, you're finding your own damn way home."

Sam laughed gratefully, relieved the tension was finally broken. Then John started the car and pulled away from the curb. Sam never thought to look back.

ooOOoo

After leaving Stanford, they headed southeast, making their way towards the panhandle of Texas. While Sam had been asleep that morning at the hotel, John had gotten a phone call from a friend or acquaintance or someone, needing his help. John wasn't sure what the problem was – his contact didn't know, and the details were sketchy.

Something was attacking people, that's all John needed to know.

It was evening though when they left Sam's apartment, so they only drove five hours before they stopped at a roadside motel. After the long drive they had already went through earlier that day, Sam was especially grateful. This lifestyle, he realized, involved a lot of driving, a lot of long distances, but he figured they had put in enough hours that day. John even let Sam drive for a while - albeit with a strict warning that whatever happens to the car, John will make sure the exact same thing happens to Sam.

This hotel was much like the last. Same floor plan, same cheap furniture, slightly better television model but worse reception, and a different but still tacky bedspread pattern. John claimed the bed closest to the TV, again, and Sam dumped his bag next to the other one.

"So this is my life now..." he said, surveying the room.

"Until you change your mind."

Sam ignored his remark as he dug through his bag for his toothpaste and brush. He was exhausted, and even the tropical bedspread-covered mattress was looking pretty cozy to him.

They took turns in the bathroom, each quickly getting ready for bed. When John came out, Sam noticed he had already changed into an old t-shirt. Still, Sam had a hard time keeping his eyes away from the claw marks on his arm.

John wasted no time climbing into bed, and Sam followed suit, burrowing into the covers. Reaching over, he snapped the bedside lamp off, plunging the room into cool darkness. He sank back into the bed and stretched out, pulling a sheet up over his shoulder. Within seconds, he was asleep.

At first it was a deep sleep, full of dark nothingness. But midway through the night, visions of flames and Jessica's terrified face came to him. Assaulted him—like they always did. Her body floating above him, crowned with fire, her face gaping with fear. Sam cried out for her, strained for her, but he couldn't reach her.

And then the flames erupted into a fireball that swallowed her whole.

And a hand on his shoulder jerked him awake.

Sam's head surged off his pillow as he gasped for air. As he sucked in a few deep lungfuls, he let his head fall back and strained his eyes in the darkness. "John?" he panted.

John was crouched over him, his face twisted with worry. Once he saw that Sam was awake, he drew back a few feet so he could sit on his own bed. "You're still having nightmares?" he asked, sounding troubled.

Sam sighed and sat up. "Yeah," he admitted reluctantly. Then his eyebrows rose as realization dawned on him. "Oh, but it was just a regular nightmare," he assured him quickly. "Nothing you have to worry about, nothing psychic."

John nodded with a grunt. Sam hoped he would drop it, but he didn't. "What was it about?" he asked after a moment.

Sam looked at his lap. "My girlfriend. Jessica. She died in a fire almost two years ago." He felt the other man's eyes on him as he continued. "I got there too late. I couldn't save her."

He heard John suck in a long breath. "You-you remember that?"

"Yeah," Sam said with an unhappy snort. "My mind blocked most of my memories, but not that one."

"Well...that sucks," John replied awkwardly.

Sam tried to shrug it off. "Just bits and pieces though. Flashes, mostly."

"And you still have nightmares about it."

Sam nodded. "But it's so screwed up. There's the fire, and Jessica—but she's hanging over me. Out of reach. And I can't do anything..." He pressed his lips together. "And then she's gone."

John was listening intently, a grim look on his face. Sam almost wanted to say more, to get it out and lay it bare now that he had a chance. But John seemed too uncomfortable, too disturbed by it, so he didn't. It was a private matter anyway, one he shouldn't burden the other man with.

"Dammit, Sam," John said, his voice heavy. "I'm sorry."

Sam looked at him and gave him a sad, twisted smile. "Me, too," he replied. Then he glanced down, away from the other man's stare.

ooOOoo

They set out early the next morning, packing and leaving as quickly as they had come in the night before.

Neither of them mentioned Sam's nightmare, to his relief. He was still embarrassed by it and he wished he hadn't woken the other man up. Fortunately, Sam had been able to fall asleep almost immediately afterwards – he was used to the nightmare by now, no longer so disturbed that he couldn't sleep. Judging by John's appearance, though, he wasn't so lucky.

They had been on the road for three hours, driving down a long stretch of dusty highway when John suddenly turned down a side lane. Sam was startled, knowing this wasn't part of the directions that were leading them to Texas. A few miles later, he pulled the car and got out, motioning Sam to do the same.

"What's going on?" Sam asked.

John walked around to the back and lifted the trunk. He rummaged through a couple of the weapons stored there and pulled out the shotgun. Sam frowned when John handed it to him, confused and more than a little alarmed.

Then John pulled out a knife and a handgun which he carried himself. With a wave of his head, he indicated the field he'd parked next to, and Sam followed as he started into it. He glanced around, but the area seemed to be deserted. There wasn't another car or building in sight.

They trampled over thin, brown grasses, their feet kicking up ground that was more sand than dirt. Overhead, the sun shone brightly, and its heat beat down on Sam's shoulders. He thought he should be a little nervous, maybe even a little scared, but John seemed relaxed, unconcerned.

He finally came to a rest about fifty feet from a scraggly, twisting tree. "Target practice," he announced.

Sam tilted his head as John continued. "If you're going to be hunting with me, you gotta know what you're doing. We should've done this before we went up to Oregon."

For the next couple of hours, he showed him how to hold a gun, how to load, aim and shoot each one that they had brought with them. Sam was surprised no one came running each time he fired, but John had chosen a truly deserted field.

He also taught him how to handle a knife, both offensively and defensively. He demonstrated different attacks, told him what body parts to aim for and which movements and angles caused the most damage. He even had Sam practice a few throws against the tree.

Sam was skeptical that he could learn all that in just a day, in just a single lesson. But fortunately he seemed to be a natural. It turned out the lighthouse hadn't been a fluke – after only a few clumsy attempts, he found himself hitting the tree with each shot. He picked up all of John's demonstrations easily, and they quickly moved through each lesson and onto the next.

It was a good thing too. The sun was hot, the air was dry, and Sam was covered with sweat. After almost three hours, John finally and mercifully declared that Sam had enough practice for now.

The two of them trekked back to the car, both of them sweaty and tired and Sam filled with a muffled sense of exhilaration. The quick lesson had given him a shot of confidence, and he was starting to feel that he could be a valuable companion, that he really could help John in his hunt.

He was nervous and excited, and he couldn't wait to try.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	17. Chapter 17

_Holy moly! Sorry for the delay, y'all, but dangit, I've been trying to post this ever since Saturday!_

_Anyway, another light chapter that doesn't really advance the plot - more of a side story, really. But the good news is that in the two days I've tried to upload this, I've decided to go with what I've already got. That means the next several chapters (as long as I don't have any more computer problems) should come out bam-bam-bam. Before now I'd been stalling, afraid that I would come up with something better...but the heck with it, I want to post most of this before the next episode on Thursday - you know,before this story grows even more AU._

* * *

Just as they crossed the border into New Mexico, Sam saw a sign advertising a nearby historic train depot. He convinced John to stop at the small museum, if for no other reason than to stretch their legs. Sam, however, could admit only to himself that he actually wanted to stop there. If they were going to be constantly roadtripping, he wanted to do the whole shebang, the entire tourist-trap routine, see things he had never seen before and most likely would never see again. 

John grumbled good-naturedly about stopping, but he seemed to need a break just as much as Sam did. The museum was a small, converted train station, filled mostly with black and white photos and model train sets, and miraculously air-conditioned. It probably took only fifteen minutes to go through, but Sam stretched it to thirty by reading the captions for each photograph and the boards explaining the history of area train services.

A particular photo picturing a fatal train crash caught John's eye, and Sam watched as he wandered over to the ticket lady sitting at desk by the front door. Sam drifted closer, reading the pictures next to them so he could listen as John casually asked if there were any legends of ghost trains or passengers in the area.

The lady, an overweight woman with graying red hair, was appreciative of John's interest and she eagerly related local stories of phantom train whistles and a headless man that wandered the area at night. Sam enjoyed hearing the local lore, but he could tell John lost interest as soon as he found out no one had ever been injured by these apparitions.

But Sam was still curious. Now that he knew they could have basis in fact, he started looking at ghost stories and legends in a whole new light. He sauntered up to the ticket desk just as the lady was finishing her stories.

"Hm, interesting," John was saying, but the short nod that went with it was too polite for him to be sincere.

The lady, whose nametag read Elaine McDougal, seemed to pick up on his waning attention. "Well that's just some small-town chatter for you," she said with a gracious smile, absently shuffling some papers.

"Ms. McDougal," Sam said, slipping in. "You said the name of the ghost was Donald Polley? Is that any relation to the Polley house, back in that picture over there?" He pointed over his shoulder at a row of pictures he had just looked at. There had been a few photos of the rural area before the railroad was put in, and the caption of one of the more ornate homes had read Polley.

Ms. McDougal nodded with new energy. "Oh, yes, actually, he was the oldest son."

"That was a grand place, wasn't it?" Sam remarked.

"They don't make 'em like they used to, that's for sure," she agreed.

"Is it still around?" By now, John had lost all interest and was wondering around the miniature train set.

"Oh, no, they lost their property when the train came through. Donald was all set to inherit it, too." She leaned closer, eager to tell her story. "He'd been engaged at the time, but that fell apart after his parents lost the home. So he took up drinking. And he was still drinking after the railroad was built."

Her voice became a loud whisper. "That's how he died, you see. He got drunk one night, right after midnight, and started wandering about the property that should've been his, like he was wont to do. And Donnie, he started kicking and cursing at the railroad tracks that went straight through his land. The next thing he knows, a train is barreling down upon him, its light blinding him. He trips over his own drunken feet, and before he can get out of the way, the train runs right over him. _Decapitated_ him," she added as she shuddered.

"Ouch," Sam remarked, grimacing.

"They say you can still see his ghost haunting his old property," she went on. "There's also a phantom train, although nobody knows if it's the train that killed him, or the one that crashed. Some say it's the same one that did both."

"Oh, really?" Sam said. "Where can we find them?"

"Well, the tracks don't exist anymore, but Route 151 pretty much runs where it used to be. And the Polley property, that's right off where Avondale crosses 151. Right now it's just a big field in the middle of nowhere, although there is a family plot near the back. Donald was the last one buried there."

Sam nodded with interest. "Hey, maybe we'll check that out tonight," he lied with a friendly grin. He doubted John would allow any more time for sightseeing.

"Oh, I wouldn't advise that," Ms. McDougal replied. "That can be a very dangerous intersection at night."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw John perk up. "Oh, yeah? How's that?" he asked as John came closer.

She shrugged, a baffled look on her face. "There's been a lot of fatal crashes there over the years," she told them. "No one's sure why. They keep putting up all these new signs, even took out all the trees nearby, but that doesn't seem to help. Probably too many kids trying to catch a ghost," she added, shaking her head sadly.

Sam nodded politely, but he saw the thoughtful look on John's face and felt the same way.

"If you're a curiosity seeker, though," she went on, "Donald's skull is on display at Dusky College."

John's eyebrows shot up. "It...is?"

"I know, that's a little morbid for me," Ms. McDougal remarked. "When his body was discovered, they couldn't find his head. So they buried him without it. When they finally came across it two years later, no one thought it was worth the effort to dig him back up. So they gave it to the local college instead."

Sam shared a glance with John. "Right now it's in a display case right outside the library, if you'd like to see it," she told them.

ooOOoo

"Congratulations, Sammy," John said, patting him on his back as they walked out of the museum. "Looks like you found our new case."

"What about the thing in Texas?" Sammy asked.

"Eh, there's no rush," John replied. "I'm told the attacks there happen about as often as Halley's Comet."

"Every 76 years?" Sam asked, puzzled.

John gave him an incredulous look. "No, you geek," he retorted. "I just mean they're spaced out over the years." He snorted as he climbed into the car. "C'mon, diploma boy, let's get something to eat, then check out what the local college has to offer."

They did just that, stopping at a nearby diner for a warm meal. Afterwards, they found another motel room, killing time as they waited for the sun to set. They'd have to do some sneaking around in the dark, John told him, so they decided they would crash there for the night and continue their trip in the morning.

"We're really going to break into the college?" Sam asked, suddenly worried.

"Well if you'd kept your damn mouth shut, we wouldn't have to," John replied. "We could've gone on our merry way, none the wiser." But now that they knew something strange was causing problems, it became by default their duty to solve it.

They pulled into the college parking lot a couple hours after the sun had set. Fortunately the library was held in a well-marked building, and they had no trouble finding it. John parked the car in a far corner at the back of the building and dug out from the trunk a pair of bolt-cutters and a small case which he slipped into his pocket.

"Just act like you belong," he advised Sam as they strolled towards the library. The small campus was deserted, and the nearest car was on the opposite side of the next lot over. Even so, Sam felt his heart pound. He was sure they would get caught, sure that any second a cop would turn the corner.

Once they hit the darker shadow the building cast from the moonlight, they dodged closer and came up to a service entrance. A chain and padlock hung from the handle.

"All right," John whispered as they hunched by the door. "We probably have sixty seconds before the alarm goes off, and another five minutes before the cops arrive – less if there's campus police. I'm pretty sure I can handle 'em, but I'd rather not."

Sam sucked in a deep breath and nodded. "Okay. In and out. We can do this."

John looked up at him. "You're not freaking out on me, are you?"

"No. Of course not." John smirked at him and turned back to the door. He took his bolt cutters and snapped the padlock from the door.

"Here goes nothing," he announced, pushing the door open.

Sam followed closely behind John as they rushed inside and turned down the hallway. Fortunately the layout was straightforward and they found the display case almost instantly, a long, low table covered in glass, propped against the wall opposite the front doors.

"Keep a lookout," John commanded, nodding at the entrance. Sam quickly obeyed, sliding along the side wall until he had a good view outside of the road out front. As far as he knew, it was the only way leading to the parking lot, so at least they would have some warning before they were caught.

He glanced back at John anxiously, checking his progress as he tried to pick the lock, using a thin tool he'd pulled from the small case he had carried in. "You almost done?" Sam asked impatiently.

"Hold your horses..." John grumbled in return.

Just then Sam spotted flashing lights off in the distance. "Damn!" he shouted, and John straightened up.

"Hey, Sammy--Catch." Sam spun around, jerking his hands up just in time as John threw something at him. His hands closed around a hard, round surface – the skull.

"Dammit, John!" he exclaimed.

"Let's _go_!" John replied in mock-exasperation. Then he flashed him a quick grin and was already dashing back towards the exit. Sam cursed under his breath and raced after him, clutching the skull in his hand.

ooOOoo

John somehow managed to maneuver his car away from the police without detection. Sam didn't know how – he was too panicked to pay attention. They had just broken into a locked building and stole something that didn't belong to them.

Right now the skull was sitting in his lap. Sam was a little disturbed that he was holding a severed body part, but at the same time, he couldn't help but feel a strange fascination towards it. Once the police were a safe distance behind them, he let himself examine it, picking it up so he could study it underneath the passing street lights.

It hadn't been a clean decapitation. The jaw had been smashed, and someone had inserted a wire to hold several of the broken pieces together, even though they no longer fit.

"Hey, John," Sam said. "Why am I holding someone's head?" He knew the answer of course, but he couldn't help but think that a normal person wouldn't have a skull balanced on his knees.

"Because I'm driving," John replied simply as he made a right turn onto Avondale. With a soft snort, Sam turned back to the skull, turning it over in his hands.

After a few minutes John pulled over, parking his car along the side of the road.

"We're not at 151 yet," Sam protested as John started to climb out. They had only just crossed Pleasant Valley, nearly a half-mile from away.

"Did you _hear_ the lady?" John asked, turning back to look at him. "Man, no way I'm risking my car."

Sam quickly met him at the back of the car, glancing around at the moonlit surroundings as John searched through the trunk. Soon he pulled out a shovel and the shotgun before slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He gave Sam the shovel to carry, and the two of them started down the road towards the rumored haunted intersection.

"Okay, so what are we doing, exactly?" Sam asked as they walked alongside the empty street. "I mean, I have the basic idea, I think. But what are we dealing with? A ghost? A train?"

John gave him a long, almost surprised look. "Um, right, I guess we should cover that first," he agreed awkwardly. "And yeah, I don't know." Sam looked at him, startled. He'd just assumed John knew what he was doing. "But it sounds like a curse to me," John continued, "since no one seems to have connected ghost sightings with the crashes."

"Unless they all died."

"Well, there is that," John conceded lightly. "In any case, I'm guessing ol' Donnie wants his head back."

"So we're giving it to him? To break the curse?"

"Yep, that's the plan."

As they walked closer to the intersection of Avondale and 151, Sam realized Ms. McDougal hadn't been exaggerating about the new street signs. The first one they passed warned them of an intersection ahead. Several yards later came a light with a sign attached which read "Prepare to stop when flashing." And then at the intersection were stop signs at each corner and a traffic light strung across the two streets. The land itself was flat and mostly treeless, and the roads were straight.

"Unless the town is full of dumbasses who can't drive, there's definitely something supernatural going on here," John remarked.

Sam agreed. "But how will we know for sure?"he asked. "Obviously not everyone experiences something every time they come out here."

"Trust me, it's us - we'll see something," John remarked. "Are your spidey senses tingling?"

Sam tried to sense the air, tried to pick up something. "I don't know. Maybe," he replied with a shrug. He couldn't tell if he was really sensing something or just thinking about it too hard.

"Well, let's find that graveyard, get this over with," John said as he stepped onto highway 151, ready to cross the two-lane road. A field stretched on the other side, dissected by Avondale. With the dim moonlight, they'd have to get closer before they could see which side held the Polley cemetery.

Sam followed behind John, the skull in one hand and the shovel in another. But he stopped suddenly at the yellow line dividing the lanes.

The ground was rumbling underneath his feet.

"Sam?" John asked from the other side of the road.

Sam looked down the highway, his muscles tensing. There was a light some distance away, but it was growing bigger—

Speeding towards him, he realized.

"The train!" he shouted at John.

John whipped his head around and gasped. Sam barely heard him, too mesmerized by the light bearing down on him. Unable to move, he stared at the circle of light as it headed straight towards him. Distantly he heard a train whistle echoing through the air.

"Sam! Move!" John shouted.

But Sam wasn't paying attention. He was standing on a highway, and a train was coming. That should have been impossible.

Just then something impacted against his middle, and for a split second Sam thought he'd been hit by the train. But then as he hit the ground beside the road, he realized John had his arms wrapped around him, and the two of them skidded a few feet across the dirt. A blast of air shot by them and then everything was silent again.

"The hell, Sam!" John cursed as he pulled himself away.

Sam struggled to sit, pushing himself up by his elbows.

"It was just a ghost, wasn't it?" he panted. "It would've gone right through me--right?" He didn't think he actually believed that, but for the sake of his pounding heart, he tried to convince himself anyway.

"You really want to test that out?" John demanded, getting to his knees. "Why don't we go back to Oregon, see if Ms. Lighthouse Keeper can push you off the side, too." He stood up, cursing under his breath as he brushed the dirt from his jeans.

Sam's face burned furiously in the dark, and he ignored the other man's words as he scrambled a few yards away from the road. When John had slammed him against the ground, the skull popped out of his arms, and he went to scoop it back up from where it had rolled. Then backtracking to where he'd just been, he picked up the shovel which in the commotion he had dropped beside the road as he fell.

Once he had a hold of that, the two of them started across the street again. This time, John walked resolutely behind him, to Sam's irritation. He didn't need him to urge him forward like some kid. When they reached the other side, John quickly picked up his shotgun from where he had dropped it before tackling Sam. Sam used that moment to fall back beside him.

The truth was, John eventually admitted as they walked side-by-side across the field, most ghosts are insubstantial and in fact do go through objects and people. But certain ones, if they're able to draw enough energy, can have a force to them. For example, anger fueled the spirit of the lighthouse keeper's wife. It really depended on what kind of ghost it was – whether it was merely an imprint or memory, or an intelligent one.

"So how could a train be intelligent?"

"If someone was driving it, it could be considered intelligent," John answered curtly. "Maybe Donnie can control it. Maybe it was only an omen. Who knows?" He still seemed angry, so Sam decided to stop asking questions.

They could see the faint outlines of small tombstones in the distance, so they changed directions, cutting across the field to where they stood. Sam clutched the skull tighter, eager to get it over with.

He stopped suddenly again. "Now what?" John asked, irritable but alert.

"Something's here..." He looked around the field. "I think."

John followed his movements. His eyes suddenly widened just as he looked over Sam's shoulder. "Look out!" he shouted.

Sam twisted around to see, but the next thing he knew, a cold feeling shot through him, ripping through his back and entering his heart.

Then John was shoving him, pushing him out of the way, and the cold feeling shrank back and disappeared. As he stumbled to the side, he saw it. A body in man's clothing. A bloody mess where the neck should have met the head.

_What the hell?_ Sam thought. Wasn't the train enough?

A few feet from him, John raised his shotgun and aimed. But just as he shot, the apparition vanished. Sam at first thought he'd gotten him, but almost instantly Donald Polley reappeared – only this time he was on the other side of Sam. Closer to him.

"Dammit!" John shouted, swinging his shotgun around. "Move, Sam!"

Sam ducked to the side just as another shotgun blast exploded through the air. But when Sam moved, the ghost moved with him, only to disappear right as John fired.

And then it came back, five feet in front of Sam.

Sam gasped in horror and dodged to his right, breaking into a run. Again the ghost materialized mere feet before him.

"Sam, get over here!" John commanded. Sam glanced over at him and saw him was struggling to reload. "_Sam_!" he barked again, jerking his head.

But instead of getting behind John like he indicated, Sam veered away. The ghost followed, flashing in front of him, and Sam twisted right.

"The skull!" he yelled back at John, circling around but keeping his distance. "It wants the skull!" When the ghost flashed before him again, Sam went left. He kept on changing directions every time the apparition tried to cut him off.

"Get _over here_!" John shouted again. "SAM!" Sam dodged again, almost tripping over his feet but quickly recovering.

"Give me the skull!" John commanded behind him.

But he ignored him, dashing across the field. If he could just stall for a little longer—

Then he heard the telltale _cha-cha_ as John finished loading the gun. Sam swung around towards him, coming at him at an angle. But this time when the headless body jumped in front of him, Sam stopped and leapt backwards.

"You want this?" Sam taunted, waving the skull in the air. "Then take it, you bastard!" He launched the skull at him as hard as he could. It sailed straight through the apparition and landed on the ground several feet on the other side.

"John, shoot it!" Sam yelled frantically as the ghost drew towards its head. "Now, now, _now!_"

"Dude, I _know_!" John snapped loudly. His shout was punctuated with a blast from the shotgun.

This time the shot struck true, and the ghostly body disappeared in almost an explosion. Sam knew it could only be a few moments before it manifested again so he dashed forward and scooped the skull back into his hands. Then, tucking it under his arm like a football, he started for the cemetery at the far side of the field.

"Sam, give me that!" he heard John shout, running behind him.

"_What_?" Sam exclaimed, his heart and legs pumping furiously. They didn't have time to exchange possessions; they had to get the damned thing in the ground before Donald reappeared.

"Just give it to me!"

"No!" His longer legs pulled him farther away from John. He bounded over the ground, clutching the skull and trying not to trip over the shovel he was still carrying. Within moments he was skidding to a stop just inside the boundary of the graveyard. John pounded up behind him seconds later.

"Hey, can you give a flashlight?" Sam asked breathlessly, holding his free hand out as he frantically surveyed the small stone markers.

"God dammit, Sam, are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

He didn't have time to answer. "Which grave is his?" he demanded, moving forward. He darted among the stones and tried to read their engravings with the dim moonlight. "Nevermind, found it," he said impatiently. Irritably.

"So go," John replied, just as irritated. "Start digging."

Sam had been on the verge of doing just that, but John's words pulled him up. "_What_? Why me?"

"I have to keep a look out."

"Isn't that my job?" Sam sarcastically pointed out.

John huffed with exasperation. "Why are you wasting time?"

Sam chucked the skull hard at him, and John fumbled to catch it. "Why are you ordering me around?" he retorted.

Even as he said that, though, he had already struck the shovel blade into the ground. He knew he needed to get started and they'd only brought one shovel. But he didn't want John to think he was doing it because he was told.

"Jesus Christ, Sam," John said.

"Why are you complaining?" Sam puffed, throwing a shovelful of dirt aside. "You're not the one who has to dig."

"Yeah, well if you hadn't started running around like a crazed lunatic, maybe you wouldn't be so tired!"

"Jerk," Sam said, shaking his head as he tossed aside another load of dirt.

"You should've just given me the skull," John went on.

Sam dug the shovel back in. "I know, I'm sorry," he apologized, trying to sound sincere. "I didn't realize you could hold onto a skull the size of a volleyball, protect yourself from a murderous ghost, and reload a frickin' shotgun, all at the same time." He threw more dirt away. "My mistake."

"Damn right it is. Don't make it again."

Sam paused just long enough to shoot the other man a dirty look. Then he shook his head and got back to digging. He stopped only once to warn John that the ghost was behind him. John whirled around and with one shotgun blast, bought them some more time.

Finally Sam broke through to the coffin. Using the shovel blade, he smashed a hole through the lid, just as John had done in Oregon. Once it was big enough, he stood back and watched as John dropped the skull onto the remains below. They looked at the pile of bones below.

After over a hundred years, Donald Polley finally had his head back.

"So, is that it?" Sam asked, looking down at his body. "Did we stop the curse?"

John stood silently beside him, staring into the grave. Sam waited for him to answer.

"Ah hell, let's burn it," John finally announced.

Sam looked at him with an amused frown, and the other man just shrugged. "Hey, couldn't hurt."

"Better safe than sorry," Sam quickly agreed.

John dropped his backpack to the ground and rummaged for supplies. Soon he was soaking the coffin in salt and kerosene, and Sam watched as he lit a match and tossed it below. The body erupted into orange light as flames began consuming the coffin.

They waited for the fire to die away. "There. That should do it," John said as the flames eventually flickered away.

The walk back to the car was mostly silent, the return trip lacking phantom locomotives and headless spirits. Even the air felt clearer, cleaner to Sam, and he knew whatever haunted the place was gone. Neither of the two men spoke as they made their way back, dragging their shovel and shotgun. Sam felt almost as if he were still trying to catch his breath - and he was still annoyed that John had tried to order him around.

But nevertheless, they finished their impromptu job without any major problems. The roads would be safer now for the townspeople, and Sam had a suspicion that even though the headless ghost would disappear, they would continue to catch glimpses of a ghostly but benign phantom train. Whatever John had said, Sam thought the train he saw had merely been the memory of a tragic event, doomed to repeat until it burned itself out.

As they strapped themselves into the Impala, Sam turned to John. "We make a pretty good team, don't we?"

John looked at him in surprise. Then a small smile spread across his face. "Yeah, we do."

* * *

_To be continued, hopefully later tonight._

_And yes, the next chapter will finally start leading somewhere!_


	18. Chapter 18

* * *

Impatient after the two detours they made the day before, they drove straight through the next day, stopping only when necessary. Even so, it still took almost a full day of driving before they finally reached the outskirts of Crider, Texas. They found a Days Inn just off the exit and ended up settling there for the night. It a higher class of hotel than the usual roadside dump, but Sam offered to pay for it all. He thought it might be a nice way to start off this new chapter of his life. 

Plus they had found a cockroach in their last motel room, and he wasn't eager to repeat that just yet.

This time they ordered Chinese for dinner, and they ate from the cardboard cartons – Sam with chopsticks, John with a plastic fork - as they sat around Sam's laptop, looking up information on the town of Crider.

As it turned out, it wasn't difficult to find. Several people had dedicated entire websites to the local and regional lore, providing every detail they've ever gathered. Unfortunately, none of it was substantiated, and the stories and rumors differed wildly from site to site. The only hard evidence they found that held any connection to the stories was one newspaper article, a recent one that most likely explained the reason they were brought there.

According to the varied legends, a settler had arrived to the area in the early 1800s and suffered through a wide range of harsh conditions and misfortunes, including Indian raids, crop failures, disease, freak blizzards, dust storms, bandits – pretty much anything the storytellers could think of. These events drove the person to some version of the dark arts to survive, and he or she quickly became a witch or warlock (depending on the website). This person somehow gained the powers of immortality on top of dark magick, but in return had to perform periodic sacrifices.

Rumors of unnatural or violent deaths had circulated in the area ever since. Some claim those chosen by the witch simply died in their sleep, others said only animals were killed, their guts spread over a stone alter. Most stories however told tales of gruesome murders, of people strung up among trees, slashed and gutted, or of people burned at the stake or hanged from branches. These deaths occurred anywhere from once a year to once every hundred, although most claimed the sacrifice happened only every few generations.

Unfortunately, records back then were rare, if they were taken at all, and newspaper accounts didn't exist for the remote area until 1900, and anything prior to 1970 were lost. Therefore, the websites depended largely on word of mouth, and John didn't need to tell Sam how unreliable that was.

But the newspaper article, dating from just last month, reported a grisly death that mirrored the legends. A woman, Janine Larson, had been found deep in a nearby woods, the apparent victim of a ritualistic murder. The newspaper suggested a satanic cult or a copycat of the legendary figure as possible suspects. Just as in the stories, the woman had been tied spread-eagle between the trees, and someone had carved symbols across her skin with a knife or other sharp object. The newspaper was vague on the details, but judging by the atrocity only hinted at, Sam couldn't blame them for the bit of censorship.

"You think this is your kind of thing?" Sam asked. "Or just some disturbed person, like the newspaper suggests?"

John chewed on the inside of his cheek as he stared at the computer screen. "There's no way to know unless we check it out," he replied. "Either way, I think we can help. We're pretty good at tracking, looking in places the police wouldn't even think of."

Sam thought it was nice of John to include him by saying "we" even though Sam had no experience, but he was nervous John might expect too much from him too soon. "You know what to do then?" he asked carefully, making sure he pronounced "you" clearly.

"Always good to start at the scene of the crime," John replied matter-of-factly. "We'll go first thing in the morning. Take it from there."

ooOOoo

Unlike the Oregon lighthouse and the headless New Mexican, this case proved to be more than a one-day investigation.

They had no trouble finding the woods where Janine Larson had been found. It was the only treed area within miles of farmland and grassy plains. After John chose a suitable place to park, they entered the cooler shade of the trees and began combing the area. They roamed around until they found the site, a search that ended up taking over an hour.

It was hard to miss, though, and once they came upon there was no doubt they had the right place. Even though there was not much left to suggest a violent crime took place there, it was clear that curious sightseers had trampled through to take a look for themselves. The brush was flattened and branches broken, and there were even discarded potato chip bags and empty soda cans and beer bottles littering the ground.

But even before Sam noticed the litter on the ground or the trampled brush, his skin had started to crawl. The air seemed to buzz along his skin, reaching deep into his chest, making his sternum thrum. He shivered as an icy feeling sank in his stomach.

He had no idea what kind of things John would be looking for there, unable to imagine anything helpful being left behind. The month-old crime scene had been thoroughly cleaned, and Sam - as uncomfortable as he was at the thought - figured that anything stained with blood that had been overlooked by the cleanup crew would have long been stolen by souvenir seekers.

Incredibly, they found the two trees the woman had been strung between. They were easily identifiable because rough symbols had been carved into the trunks, four different shapes that formed a vertical line about a foot long on each trunk. They sent a chill through Sam, even though he didn't recognize any of them. Apparently neither did John - he took out a small leather binder and flipped through the pages as if it were a reference guide. Sam realized belatedly it probably was. When he didn't find what he was looking for, John took out another small notebook and a pen and quickly sketched the symbols.

Then Sam noticed a white speck on the ground, an oddly-shaped object with a slight sheen. Picking it up, he was surprised to find it was solid but soft. Melted wax. He showed it to John, who took it from him. The other man scratched it with his fingernail and then brought it up to his nose to smell it.

"Yep, that's from a ritual candle," he remarked. "Whoever did this was serious about it."

Sam shuddered, knowing magic was involved. He could sense it in the air, and that unnerved him. The killer was more than just a sick copycat. That didn't necessarily make it worse, but the whole thing felt more creepy.

"How do you deal with this?" Sam asked. "I mean, I can _feel_ the evil here...How can you face that _every day_?" The air almost felt like it was slithering along his skin, and it made him queasy.

"You get used to it," John hedged.

Sam frowned. He didn't think he ever would.

"It's harder for some people," the other man added after a moment, speaking lowly. Sam caught him studying his reaction, and he immediately cleared his face. He didn't want John to know he was so bothered.

After they inspected the rest of the area and found nothing else, John dropped Sam back at the hotel, leaving him to research the symbols online while he went to interview a Mrs. Stevens, the woman who had asked him there.

It was nearly an impossible search. Sam had hoped John would know something about the symbols, no matter how insignificant, but apparently he was as clueless as Sam because he left him with nothing. Sam had nothing to go on, nowhere to start, with no way to search by images with unknown names. Instead, he had to search for online symbol databases and rune guides and go through them all, image by image. He was still searching when John came back.

John entered the hotel room with a flourish, waving a manila folder through the air as he burst through the door.

"Any luck?" he asked.

Sam felt himself go bug-eye with annoyance at the mismatched entrance and greeting. Here he was, his vision blurring after hours of fruitless searching when John waltzes in with an obvious find, and yet he had the gall to ask Sam if he had any luck? In one fell swoop, John managed to make him wait for answers _and_ rub his nose in his own lack of results.

"No, not yet," Sam replied irritably. He impatiently gestured at the folder in John's hand, annoyed he even had to ask. "What's that?"

"Hey now, no need to get your panties in a bunch," John remarked tossing the folder onto the desk.

"What is it?" Sam asked again even as he was reaching for it.

"Mrs. Stevens is actually Lieutenant Stevens, a cop. _And_ she came prepared." Sam lifted his eyebrows as he opened the folder. "Crime scene photos," John announced just as Sam was sucker punched by a graphic image of a hanging, bloodied body.

Sam jerked his eyes away, only half listening as John talked over his shoulder. "More symbols to research," he said. "We definitely have a sick bastard on our hands."

"Yeah," Sam snorted in agreement, chancing another look at the photographs. Just as the newspaper had reported, symbols had been carved into the skin on her hands, forehead, stomach, and upper chest, and her body and clothing were streaked with blood.

"Notice anything about these pictures?" John asked, and Sam took the cue to look through the other photos stashed in the folder. In addition to pictures of the entire scene as a whole, there were close-ups of each mark, of the thick, rough ropes that bound her wrists and ankles to the trees, and of the ground below, where the dirt and fallen leaves were splattered with blood. Sam studied the pictures, and the analytical side of his mind quickly overrode the queasiness in his stomach.

"Is it just me, or is the marking on her forehead darker than the others?" he asked, examining the photo of her face. The symbol looked almost black.

John nodded. "Yeah, I noticed that too. Might just be the lighting, or it might be part of the spell. Something we'll have to keep in mind if it is a clue. But that's not all."

Sam hmm'ed to himself as he looked through the stack again. Something struck him then, and he tried to remember what he had read in the article. "Wait," he said. "How did she die?" He studied the ground again, but as far as he knew, the amount of blood that had dripped onto the ground wasn't enough to account for her death. He looked at her body, but didn't see any significant wounds, only the skin deep etchings.

"Bingo," John replied. "They don't know. The best the coroner can come up with is that she died of fright, that her heart just stopped, even though she was young and had no health issues." Sam looked up at him, frowning. "And that pretty much means we have something supernatural here," John finished with a proud flourish.

"You really think we're dealing with a 200-year-old pioneer?" Sam asked him, cocking an eyebrow.

"Maybe. Or some kind of intelligent creature, like a wendigo, maybe even a demon."

Sam let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. "That's..."

"What?" John replied sharply. "That's what?"

Sam had been about to say _crazy_, and he knew John had picked up on that. "Hey, I'm still getting used to the idea that all this is real," he said defensively. He'd only seen ghosts so far, and ghosts at least were generally more accepted by the public. He could deal with the idea of ghosts existing. But monsters and witches and demons? He knew he had offended the other man, but Sam had a hard time accepting that this - all of this - could truly be real. It _was_ crazy.

ooOOoo

Sam woke up early the next morning, images of Jessica slipping from his mind as he pushed himself up. He tried to hold onto his dream, but the memory was gone before he had a chance. Jessica had been speaking to him, but he couldn't remember if he had been able to understand her or not. He couldn't even remember where she was or what she had been wearing, couldn't remember anything but her.

But it hadn't been a nightmare this time.

Sam sighed and scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles. Even though the curtains had been pulled close, enough light snuck through the edges that he could see. In the next bed, John was still asleep, his even breaths almost loud enough to be considered snores.

So this was his life for now. A cheap hotel room in a strange town. A snoring roommate. A new job that ran the gamut of cheesy horror movies and campfire stories.

And yet, he realized, this life seemed more real to him than the entire past year at Stanford.

Grabbing his overnight bag, he snuck into the bathroom where he quickly showered and changed, hoping the noise wouldn't wake John. When he came back out, he found the other man still asleep, and he shifted on his feet, taking a couple false starts as he considered his next steps. The television wasn't worth risking waking John, and after the research the day before, Sam would be happier not staring at his laptop screen. Then his stomach growled, and Sam remembered the McDonald's across the parking lot. He quickly decided to grab some breakfast to bring back to the room, effectively solving several problems at once.

Unfortunately, his timing was bad, and he hit the restaurant at the height of morning rush hour. Between waiting in line, ordering, and the backup of orders, the fast food took thirty minutes from the time he entered through the door. As he waited, he started to regret not leaving a note. He hadn't counted on being gone for so long. ButJ ohn had no reason to worry – even if he woke up before Sam returned, the most logical assumption would be that Sam had just gone for breakfast.

He balanced the two hot coffee cups and a bag full of various breakfast sandwiches as he weaved his way back across the parking lot towards their hotel. He figured John wouldn't be too picky about food, but he had ordered several kinds just in case.

Once he reached their room, he had to press the cups against his chest with one arm as he unlocked the door. It swung open and he pushed himself through, trying to keep the coffee steady so it wouldn't spill.

John was sitting with his legs bent over the side of the bed. Even though Sam hadn't seen it, his back was in a stiff, upright position, suggesting he had just jerkedupright when Sam opened the door. For a split second he looked up at Sam with wide eyes, but then he quickly schooled his features into an impassive expression.

"Hey," he greeted casually.

"Breakfast," Sam returned, setting the coffee onto the desk with relief. He turned back to the older man and studied him. "Is something wrong?"

"Huh? No," John replied. Sam cocked his head, not believing him. "I just—I thought maybe you'd gone back."

That startled him. "What? Where'd you get that idea?"

"I didn't see your things."

Sam blinked and looked around the room before remembering. "Ah, I must've left them in the bathroom." He frowned and looked back at John. Why had the other man have jumped to that conclusion so easily? It bothered him. "You actually thought I would leave, just like that?"

"Figured you changed your mind," John replied with a stiff shrug. Sam continued to stare at him, but the other man refused to meet his eyes, keeping them instead leveled at Sam's chest. "I know it's not the best life or anything," he went on. "I understand if you wanna go back, you know."

"But I don't," Sam replied. "We're just getting started."

John indicated his chest with a nod. "And you're going to tell me that's not some Freudian message, college boy?"

Sam was confused for a moment before he looked down at his t-shirt. It was a grey one with _Stanford_ printed across in block letters. He hadn't even looked at it when he pulled it from the bag after his shower. "I just threw it on this morning. It doesn't mean anything." John just snorted, and Sam had to snort in return.

"Why're you being so pissy?"

"I'm not being pissy," John replied petulantly.

"Yeah. You are."

John just shook his head and pushed himself up from the bed. "Yeah, well, I haven't had my caffeine yet." Sam smirked as the other man grabbed a coffee from the desk. John took a long, bold sip – making Sam, who was nursing his own steaming hot cup, wince at the sight – and then sat it back down. "'Scuse me," he said. "Haven't had a chance to take a leak yet either."

While he was gone, Sam took the bag of food and divided it up between them, making two equal piles. John quickly returned, and Sam could almost see his mouth salivating at the food. It wasn't gourmet, but it was warm.

As John tore into a sausage egg McMuffin, Sam couldn't let go of his bewilderment. He was gone when John woke up, and his first assumption was that Sam had left him. He hadn't even had the chance to go to the bathroom, yet he had time to jump to that conclusion. "You think the whole world is against you," Sam realized.

John's jaw dropped and Sam could see half-chewed bits of egg and meat. "_What_?" he said, swallowing.

It started to fall into place for Sam. The evils John faced constantly. Alone. That had to turn even the most cheerful person into a cynic. Added to that is a missing father, which meant he probably had abandonment issues as well. "You don't trust anyone, do you?" Sam asked him. "You didn't even trust that I would say goodbye if I were to leave."

"Well, you didn't seem too happy at the crime scene."

"Can you blame me? That place was awful," Sam replied. "Look, I know we barely know each other, but I wouldn't just leave without telling you first."

"But you would leave."

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, maybe. Someday. But that's no reason to be so paranoid." John clamped his jaw, refusing to say anything. Sam was confused by his reactions. Why did he care so much about what Sam did?

"Did your dad leave without warning?" Sam suddenly asked.

John obviously hadn't been expecting that, and silence stretched between them as Sam waited for an answer. "Yeah," John finally admitted with a tight shrug. "But I should've expected it."

He should have expected it? Sam studied the tormented look on John's face.

"This life really does mess you up, doesn't it?" he realized.

But John shook his head. "No," he whispered, lifting his eyebrows. "Not me. Just everyone around me."

"Dude, you are messed up," Sam told him, trying to sound a little bit cheerful. "But that's okay, I'm pretty messed up too."

"I'm _fine_," the other man practically growled in response. Sam almost laughed at that obvious lie. He could name so many ways in which he was wrong, but he decided to begin with the one that had started the conversation.

"But you don't trust people," Sam pointed out. "I don't blame you, not after all you've seen, but you gotta admit-"

"_No_," John interrupted vehemently. "That's not it at all. If anything, _I'm_ the one..." But he stopped.

"You're the one what?" Sam pressed, curious.

He looked down at his hands and took a deep breath. "Sam, I..."

When he didn't finish right away, Sam stared hard at him. "What is it?"

The older man seemed to stiffen. "Nothing. Never mind," he replied, his Adam's apple bobbing.

Sam sighed, frustrated. But whatever was bothering him would have to come out eventually.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	19. Chapter 19

_I said I would post the next chapter as long as I didn't have any computer problems. Well, that was just stupid - my moniter burned out yesterday._

_(By the way, I'll forgive you if you end up skimming through the second half of the chapter. I was trying to get from A to B, and I took the long, convoluted way.)_

* * *

The next day brought more of the "boring part," as John dubbed it. 

First they interviewed the parents of Janine Larson - but that turned out to be much more depressing than it was boring. They pretended to be detectives still working on the case, and the Larsons accepted them with a mix of eagerness for new help, and the tired acceptance ofthe miserable discussion they knew from experience was coming.

Until he saw their gray faces, Sam didn't realize just how hard it was to speak with people who were still grieving, to force them to share their memories out loud with complete strangers. He immediately felt guilty, knowing they weren't who the Larsons thought they were. But if he and John were to stop whoever or whatever had killed Janine, they needed more information, and they needed to lie to get it.

He tried to put on the most sympathetic, understanding face as he could, but he was nervous it would look forced, and these two people obviously didn't deserve to see more forced sympathy. It wasn't that he was insincere, because he really did feel horrible for the Larsons - so much that his stomach felt heavy in his stomach - but as much as he tried, he felt too uncomfortable for any of his real emotions to show naturally. He was trying too hard to make up for what they were putting them through.

Unfortunately, Janine's parents weren't much help. Still visibly shaken, they lead Sam and John into the living room and told them with shaky voices that they had no clue who could have done that to their daughter.

"She never said much about her social life," Mrs. Larson said from her seat on the couch, clutching her hands in her lap. "In fact, before all this happened, I-I was worried about her. She had a great job at the bank, you know, and this cute little apartment above her favorite cafe..." She trailed off for just a moment to recompose herself, shaking her head with a sniff. Mr. Larson put his hand on her knee, and she continued. "But then she stopped seeing her friends, stopped dating."

"Do you think she started hanging with the wrong crowd?" John asked. "Maybe got involved with someone dark, dangerous?"

Mrs. Larson shook her head emphatically. "Oh, no, not Janine. In fact, every time I visited her, every time I called, she was home, alone."

"Mm, I see," John murmured with polite detachment. "What about her actions? Did she have any unusual interests? Anything you'd consider even a little bit strange?"

"No, nothing that I knew of. She didn't seem to have interest in much of anything."

Sam frowned. He had planned on letting John do all the talking, since he knew what he was doing and what questions to ask. But he found himself jumping in before John could go on. "Was she depressed?" Sam asked gently. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John glance sharply at him.

Mrs. Larson drew in a shaky breath and nodded. "Yes. I-I think so. But I don't know why, she had no real reason to be. I told her to go to the doctor, but she refused. She refused to do anything about it."

Sam nodded, sad but knowingly. He could understand that.

But Mrs. Larson misinterpreted his reaction, and her eyes widened suddenly. "She would _never_ have killed herself, if that's what you're thinking!"

Aghast, Sam quickly shook his head and held up his hands. "Oh, no, I wasn't implying that at all," he rushed to assure her. He'd seen the pictures; there was no way Janine could have done that to herself. He wouldn't bring that up though, refusing to remind them what their daughter had suffered through. He hoped the graphic photos had never been shown to them.

Mrs. Larson sniffed wetly and her husband took over for her, speaking up for the first time since he greeted them. "We just want this case solved," he explained. "We were so afraid y'all have given up. That-that person is still out there, and what's stopping them from doing this again?"

"I want justice," Mrs. Larson spoke again, her voice suddenly firm despite the tears that were still lining her eyes. "I want to know why. I want them caught." She stared at John and Sam. "We need that peace of mind. _Please_."

Mr. Larson swallowed heavily before he added to his wife's sentiments. "I don't want no one to go through what we've been through," he said thickly. "Janine didn't deserve to die that way. No one does."

ooOOoo

"Those poor people…" Sam muttered to himself as he and John walked back to the Impala.

Their torment had been hard to take. From the moment he saw the Larsons pale faces, he couldn't force the crime scene photos out of his mind. He couldn't stop thinking about the ghastly images of the bloodied, tortured body--the body who had been someone. He couldn't stop thinking about the young, late Janine Larson and the mourning parents she left behind.

"There's a lot of evil out there, man," John remarked casually. Sam nodded silently, not replying. John seemed to watch him for a moment over the top of his car, but then he climbed into the car without another word.

Sam followed, closing the creaky car door beside him as he settled into the passenger side.

"That has to be so hard, so depressing, to face that kind of evil," Sam murmured.

"Yeah, what the hell was that about back there?" John jumped in. "Acting like you knew all about depression. I thought you were going to let me do all the talking. I mean, c'mon, you were happy at Stanford."

"Relatively speaking, I guess," Sam replied with a offhanded shrug. John seemed to want more, but Sam was too distracted. "I mean, you can't just track the supernatural down like an animal. Someone has to _die_ before you even realize something's going on."

John just shrugged in answer, obviously unwilling to change topics.

"And it's always there," Sam persisted, gazing out of the car into the bright sunshine. "And you - you're always going after it. Going after these…_monsters_ who carve people's skin or push them off lighthouses or turn into werewolves and slaughter little children."

He turned from the windshield to look at John. "That can't be healthy for you," he said. "That can't be a good life."

"What's going on here?" John asked, sounding annoyed. "Are you playing Dr. Phil now?"

Sam ignored him. "So that's what we're supposed to do? Track this evil down, confront it—come face-to-face with that horror—and then fight it with just a gun or a knife or-or a cup of _salt?_" he remarked heatedly. "And when that's over, we have to do it again?"

"You don't _have_ to do anything," John retorted, sounding terse.

"Is that how you chose to live your life?" Sam pressed, undeterred. "Is that what you really want?"

"It's not about choice with me," John told him. "It _is_ my life. It's just what I do."

"But how can you deal with all that darkness?"

John drew in a long, frustrated breath. "I dunno," he said irritably. "Same way cops and doctors and social workers have to deal with their own evil."

"But this…this is a little different," Sam argued, thinking out loud as he went. "You can't go home and leave your work behind. You can't even let anyone know what you're doing because no one'd believe you." He looked at him again. "Don't you just want to give up sometimes?"

He watched as John's jaw twitched and his lips pursed together. "Look, Sam--With this kind of life, you gotta be committed to it," he told him. "You need to accept it and everything it throws at you. You have to have the right nature, the right makeup or constitution--whatever. It's not for everyone."

"But it's for you?"

John nodded. "This works for me. It's what I know."

"You spend your life dealing with monsters," Sam stated slowly."You live through a perpetual nightmare. Fighting monsters."

"Sam," John said seriously. "Lots of people live their lives without even knowing our brand of evil. They never have to deal with this. They're happy. And you can have that, you can leave right now if you want to, forget all about this."

But Sam only half heard him. "Every day you discover a new evil," Sam went on. "A new horrible reality that you have to face."

"You can leave this behind, before it gets to you," John told him, looking at him."I'll understand that."

Sam returned his gaze. "Every day you find another Janine Larson."

John seemed to give up, sighing wearily. "Like I said, there's a lot of evil out there," he replied.

Sam nodded slowly. "Like this evil we're facing now," he added, turning to his head to glance back at the Larson home.

"Yep," John agreed glibly. "We get to expose ourselves to something really messed up. We get to see something disturbing and freaky and wrong."

"But we're going to stop this from happening again," Sam said, turning back to watch John's expression. "That's all that really matters, right?"

John looked at him, stunned. Then he nodded tightly and started the car.

ooOOoo

The true boring part came next. The internet had been nohelp in finding the symbols that had been carved onto the trees and across the victim, so they decided to research at the library in hopes it would have more focused information. They went into the local history section, going through old books and records on early settlers and their religions or heritages.

They spent four hours there, learning more than they wanted and nothing they needed. Sam knew that in a more relaxed circumstance, he'd actually might be interested in learning the local history. But as part of research, he quickly grew frustrated. And even he found all of the information to be dry, dense, and just too overwhelming.

Worst of all, there were no leads. The pioneers had been a mixed bunch, one that kept moving, constantly coming to and many times leaving the area around Crider. They all seemed to have a rough time settling, which meant any one of them could have resorted to magic. Sam was quickly growing discouraged as he ran out of ideas and options.

Just as he was about to declare a break, John beat him to the punch. Their eyes aching, they slammed their books shut with more force than needed and stood up on legs that needed stretching.

John was clearly just as irritated as he was, but Sam gave him credit for looking on the bright side as the two headed out of the front doors. "At least this isn't urgent," he remarked. "Whatever-it-is only kills every few years. We've got time."

Sam nodded, glad for that point. As far as they could tell, Janine's death was the first one in at least thirty years. But, he added to himself, that was all the more reason for finishing the case quickly so they could move onto something else that _was_ more urgent.

He would have suggested they move on anyway, but the Larsons' pale faces hadn't left him yet. He wanted to give them some justice, whatever little peace he could.

The sun was bright overhead, and they squinted from the sudden light. Despite the pain in his eyes, it was a beautiful day and Sam almost hated to waste it inside researching.

John apparently agreed, because his eyes were quickly caught by a blonde who was walking along the sidewalk in their direction. She wasn't exactly a head-turner – her nose was just a little too big, and her eyes were set close together – but she was pretty enough, and Sam got the feeling that John wasn't too picky, especially in a small town.

John didn't surprise him. "Hello," he greeted with a cocky grin as she got closer.

She nodded and returned his smile with a wide, friendly one of her own. But her step didn't slow and she passed right on by them, walking past Sam's side. John huffed in disappointment under his breath.

Just as the girl was beside him, Sam heard a scuff the shoe scraping against concrete and she stumbled. He automatically reached out, snatching onto her arm to catch her from falling.

"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry!" she gasped, her eyes wide as he pulled her upright.

"Hey, no problem," Sam replied easily.

"I don't know how I..." She trailed off with an embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. Then her arm dropped and she looked between the two men, cocking her head to the side. "I haven't seen you around before. New in town?"

John seized the opportunity to jump in. "Yes, actually, we are," he replied with a grin that showed his teeth. "I'm John, and this is Sam. Just here for a few days, thought we'd explore the sights and sounds." Sam forced himself to refrain from rolling his eyes.

The girl's eyebrows rose in curiosity. "Oh, is that right?" she teased with a smile.

"That is right," John replied smoothly, matching her tone. "Maybe you could help show us around."

"There really isn't much to see here," she told him. "It's rather dull."

John was quick, smooth with his answers. "Maybe a little company would liven some things up," he remarked with a smirk.

The young woman laughed lightly. "Well, I can't promise you I'll give you a good time," she replied. "But you know what? Here's my number if you'd like to hang out sometime while you're here." John grinned in triumph as she hunched over to rummage through her purse.

"Red ink, huh?" John observed when she brought out a pen. "The color of love."

"And desire," she added as she scribbled onto a piece of paper.

John flashed Sam a quick smirk, waggling his eyebrows. Sam just shook his head, content to stand back and let John flirt.

Which was why he was taken off guard when she extended the slip of paper to him instead. Sam blinked and reached out his hand, and she pressed it into his palm. Beside him, he saw John bristle at the snub.

"Well, gotta run!" she replied with a wink before spinning around.

But Sam barely heard her. "What the _hell_?" he exclaimed, bringing his hand up in front of him.

His skin was burning.

"What is it?" John asked.

Sam stared at the piece of paper. It stuck to his palm by itself, a white rectangle with red writing. But before he could even try to peel it off, the white suddenly, right before his eyes, crumbled and blew to the ground.

But the red ink stayed behind. The words remained in his palm, tattooed against his skin for a brief moment before it dissolved away.

"What the hell was that?" Sam demanded, shoving his hand out.

"What happened?" asked Johnas he glanced at the ground. Tiny white scraps of paper blew in the wind, slowly crumbing to dust as they skipped along the cement sidewalk.

"That...that paper she gave me, it just disintegrated!" Sam said, still reeling. His thoughts raced as he struggled to comprehend what had just happened. "That wasn't a phone number she gave me, it was a name...and it-it sank into my palm."

"It...what?"

Sam quickly looked down the sidewalk but the woman had already disappeared. He jogged to the corner, vaguely award of John following close behind him, but she wasn't on the side street either. She was gone.

"Okay," John said. "Tell me exactly what happened." Sam explained as best as he could, trying to describe the way the paper crumbled away, leaving just the ink behind, which burned itself into Sam's skin before it faded away. "Did you see what was written?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah." John perked up with interest. "Annie Smith," Sam told him with a frustrated snort.

John deflated slightly, but he still nodded with some eagerness. "All right! That's a start," he said. "Hopefully there's only one Annie Smith in the town records..." he added sardonically.

Sam was still reeling. He tilted his head, squinting at the other man. "So...So that was _her_? The murderous witch we've been tracking?" She was young, and she wore jeans and a tank top – certainly not what Sam would have pictured as a witch, or an early 19th-century pioneer.

John shrugged. "You have to admit that was weird. It's a lead, if nothing else." He laughed dryly. "Boy, she picked the wrong guys to run into. At least we know she's not completely psychic."

Sam had a hard time trying to put it all together. "But...why me? And what exactly did she do to me, and--_why_?" he stammered, trying not to sound panicked. He didn't want to admit it, but the strange encounter left him nervous and uncomfortable. He realized just how scary it was, not knowing what they were up against.

There was a short silence as John leveled his gaze at him. His look was intense enough to bring Sam from his thoughts. "I'm not sure," he told him evenly. Sam nodded, hoping it didn't look as shaky as it felt.

"But don't be scared, all right?" he went on, tilting his head forward to emphasize his words. "I'm here, and I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Sam blinked, startled by his announcement. He was also surprisingly comforted. He took in a deep breath to compose himself. "Thanks," he replied, a little awkwardly.

He swallowed, feeling compelled to continue even though he didn't want to know the answer. "You don't...you don't think she marked me as her next victim, do you? I mean...It doesn't fit the MO. It's too soon. Right?"

John looked at him and Sam knew he was carefully choosing his words. "Well, we don't know for sure what her MO is, or her reasons. We need more information."

Sam nodded in agreement, willing to accept that for now. He could worry about it later, once they had a better idea who – or what - they were dealing with. Fortunately, even his gut started to agree. As he calmed down, the initial shock from the encounter slowly leaving him, he could think more clearly.

He was incredibly thankful that he wasn't alone, that John was there with him, and he knew that was the reason his anxiety was fading. Sam trusted him.

That girl didn't seem so tough, he realized.

"Alright, say this Annie Smith is...responsible," Sam started to think out loud. "So what are we dealing with? A witch? Do we really think that girl is 200 years old?"

"Well, it's too early to say anything," John replied after a moment. "But, if the legends have any basis, it is possible that she resorted to witchcraft to protect herself, and maybe she learned how to sacrifice lives to extend her own."

Sam let out a low half-whistle.

They decided to head back to the library, this time with a little more energy now that they had a lead to follow. They went back to local history section, the room they had already spent four hours in. But they had a name to look for, and within twenty minutes they found a small entry in the records.

A Henry Smith of Virginia died in 1821 of cholera, leaving behind a widow, Anne. Three months later, her five-year-old son also died. There were many other Smiths in the records, but other than an unrelated young girl who had died as a toddler, that was the only Anne they could find.

Sam tried to imagine moving into across the country into an unknown territory, only to suddenly lose your only family. But this Anne Smith, whether she was the one they were looking for or not, lived through that.

Maybe that was enough to send someone over the edge. If she was left alone in an unfamiliar, dangerous place, she would need some way to protect herself. Otherwise, she wouldn't have lasted very long.

But the young woman they ran into – she couldn't possibly be that same Annie Smith. She was too...normal. It was hard to see her as a woman who traveled in a covered wagon almost 200 years ago.

Besides, were they really thinking that Anne Smith was still alive?

Maybe the girl they'd just met was a descendant. Carrying on the family practice, Sam thought wryly.

Then an idea occurred to him. With a sudden gust of curiosity, Sam rushed to the nearest computer and pulled up a genealogy website. In the search fields, he entered all the information they had and impatiently waited as it searched. A match came back seconds later – a Henry Smith, born in Danville, Virginia in 1795, died in Texas in 1821, married an Anne Palmer, born in Virginia in 1797, death unknown. They had only one son, George, who also died in 1821. It fit.

Which meant their Anne had no direct descendents.

Of course, it could be that the girl had no connection with the witch legend at all - but Sam had to admit it was too much of a coincidence that in their search of the supernatural, they came across a girl with apparent magic.

"All right, what all does that tell us?" John asked as Sam voiced his thoughts out loud.

Sam snorted and rubbed the back of his neck. "That I'm starting to think that girl today really is our pioneer-witch."

John nodded, obviously finding the idea less outrageous than Sam did. "Okay...So now what?"

"Wait, I'm not finished yet," Sam replied, typing in the new information. He still hadn't a chance to explore his idea. A few clicks later, he had a new result. "Look at this," he said, a slight but triumphant feeling swelling in his chest. He tapped at the screen.

Annie Palmer, born to parents George Palmer and Maria Arthurssen.

Sam allowed himself a smile of triumph. He was hoping for something like this.

"What if..." he began, gathering his thoughts together as John looked on blankly. "What if Annie – if she really was or is a witch – learned the art from her mother? I mean, she had to have gotten the knowledge from somewhere, right? It could be an ancient knowledge that's been passed down--maybe her mother told her stories of their heritage."

John frowned thoughtfully as he digested Sam's idea. "So...Anderssen, that's Scandinavian, right?"

"Yep," Sam nodded. "I bet if we look up Scandinavian or northern European sources, we'll find those symbols." He bounced his leg eagerly as a dog would wag its tail. He couldn't help but feel as though he was close to breaking the code.

"We don't know she got it from her mother," John pointed out. "What if she learned the magic somewhere else?"

"Well, then we're be back where we started. We'll just have to keep searching." Even as Sam answered, John was already typing away at the computer next to his. Despite his arguing, he obviously thought Sam was onto something.

"Holy crap..." John suddenly said some twenty minutes later. He reached into his bag and pulled out a notebook, flipping through the pages. Since they couldn't flash the crime scene photographs around in public, John had sketched them into a book in case they would need them. Sam was now grateful he had.

From his angle, Sam couldn't see much on John's screen, so he waited through several more clicks of the mouse and _a-ha_'s from John.

"All right, get this!" John suddenly said, spinning around on his chair. He looked down at the notes he had scribbled, tapping them with the short stub of a pencil provided by the library as he spoke. "Okay, the symbols come from some obscure ancient tribe, an offshoot of the Vikings. I'm not even going to try to say the name. Anyway," he continued, clearing his throat, "the cuts on Janine's body – those were basically like labels. It's kinda a rough translation, and I think she modified or combined the symbols, but it's enough to get an idea."

He looked up at Sam to see if he understood before he turned back to his notes. "The one on her hands stands for...body, or more like the ability of the body. The physical aspects or something. The one on her stomach stands for power or force, kind of like fuel. Then over her heart is, duh, heart and spirit. And her forehead means mind."

"So, four basic elements of life," Sam summed up, sitting back in his chair.

"Pretty much, yep," John agreed. "And on the trees were markings that stood for doorway or portal, and a symbol for transference. It's all pretty straightforward, actually. Looks like your basic power-sucking spell."

Sam snorted, doubting that was the official term. But then he suddenly leaned forward. "Wasn't there another symbol on her chest?"

John nodded with a snort. "Yeah. What I thought was a crooked triangle and some type of squiggle was simply English - a rough A and S."

"Her initials," Sam remarked.

"Yep. It's a signature, a way of claiming Janine and her energies."

Sam swallowed, thinking of the signature in his hand. He tried to suppress his shiver. "So...Annie's been doing this ever since the 1820's? She performs this ritual, sucks up everything she needs, and gets to live forever?"

He thought it over before amending, "Or at least, until the person's energy is used up and she needs a new victim."

"That would explain why these rituals only happen every fifty years or so."

Sacrifice a life to save your own. Any sympathy Sam may have had for Annie Smith and her tragic lifedisappeared instantly.

ooOOoo

After their discovery, John agreed to a break, and this time they followed through. They headed to a nearby tavern, a dark, quiet place just a few blocks away. It was still too early for any serious drinking, but they each ordered a hamburger and a cold mug of beer. Sam dove into his meal, suddenly ravenous. As they ate, they discussed their next step.

Neither of them knew how they would track Annie down. They'd already tried the phonebook.

Sam suggested that since she marked him, she'd probably show up sooner or later to finish whatever she started. All they would have to do was wait.

John, however, hated that idea. He told Sam it wouldn't work, that they didn't even know if she would ever come back for him.

But Sam knew John believed she _would_ be back for him, and that made the other man nervous. Sam's suggestion had unnerved him, Sam could tell. He wanted to go on the offensive, he wanted to do the attacking – even if he didn't know how. He was dead set against Sam acting as bait, even though thatmade the most sense. Even though that was their only option.

"Then what _should_ we do?" Sam demanded, knowing John didn't have an answer. All they could do was wait.

It was strange, maybe even a little funny. Just an hour earlier, Sam had been the nervous one, scared and uncertain. Now their roles were reversed, and Sam was more confident and eager, ready to prepare himself for when she'd come for him - if only John would just accept it.

By the time they made it back to their hotel room, they still hadn't reached an agreement on how to proceed. John seemed angry and Sam was annoyed.

So they watched some unmemorable TV for a couple of hours and went to bed early.

And then Sam dreamed of towering trees, leaf-patterned sunlight, and a rock outcropping covered in moss.

* * *

_to be continued..._

_Lordy, I hope that made sense. But at least that's out of the way! Now we can see some action._


	20. Chapter 20

_Here's another chapter, to help kill time before the new episode tonight!_

_Gah, it's late. All typos, errors, plot holes, and awkward wordings are mine. _

* * *

"I know where to go," Sam announced first thing the next morning. 

"Huh?" John asked, his voice still groggy from sleep. He wasn't even sitting up yet. Sam had only waited until his eyes opened before he spoke.

"I know where to go," Sam repeated as John finally pushed himself up against the headboard. "She sent me a message."

"A message?" Sam watched John's confused expression as his mind struggled to work through the early morning fog.

"An image," Sam explained. "In a dream."

John sat up straighter at that. "What do you mean? How do you know?"

"I dreamt of the forest. The details were so sharp, so specific." Sam paused for a moment. "And...I don't know how to explain it, but...I could just tell that didn't come from my own thoughts. It felt foreign. Out of place." He tried to keep a poker face, wishing he had John's talent for that. He didn't want the other man to know how freaked out he felt. Again. Even now, as he spoke, he could feel the persistent pull, tugging him to the forest.

"Dude, that's creepy," John remarked.

"Yeah. Tell me about it."

"Is she still in there, in your head?"

"No," Sam replied before thinking. But then a sudden panic set in. "Wait, what if she is?" He didn't feel or think anything different but...would he know?

John shook his head. "I doubt that. That seemed to be a very minor spell yesterday, probably just enough to create a simple one-way connection. A dream would use up most if not all of whatever power she cast over you."

Sam's doubt must have shown on his face because John continued. "She sent you a location, right?" he pointed out. "I don't think she was concerned about anything else. This was only her first step."

"So what's her next step?"

"There's not going to be a next step."

Sam ignored his growled announcement. He ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts racing. "She wants me to go there, doesn't she," he realized.

John hesitated but then gave him a short nod. "Probably," he admitted.

His skin crawled at the idea of being called like that - but at the same time, he knew how much this helped them. "So she'll be there," Sam exclaimed. "That's where we can find her!"

His excitement grew as it sunk in. The thrill of puzzle pieces falling into place, of problems on the verge of being resolved – his heart hammered at the culmination of their hunt that loomed ahead of them. They could finish this today.

John, however, looked the opposite of thrilled. His face had a sick sheen to it, and he kept twitching his head as if he were trying to keep emotions from breaking through.

"What's wrong?" Sam finally asked, unable to stand it any longer.

John swallowed heavily. "I made a huge mistake, Sam..." he said, his voice filled with gravel.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, a little confused and alarmed.

A moment passed before John flicked his tongue out to wet his lips. "I left you unprepared," he replied, jerking his head away. "I should never have..." He trailed off and took in a deep breath. "God dammit."

"I don't understand..." Sam frowned, his cheeks flushed red with heat. He knew he wasn't a skilled fighter and knew next to nothing about defending himself. It embarrassed him that he needed to rely so much on John. But that wasn't John's fault and he didn't know why he was so upset.

John started to explain. "She wants you...but she might also think I'll tag along. She knows we're in town together, so she has to be prepared in case you'd bring me with you."

"So I have to go alone," Sam surmised, catching on.

"No...but it has to look that way," the other man replied. "If she can lure people to her with just a dream, she must have some pretty impressive powers. If we want any kind of advantage, we need the element of surprise. Which means I stay hidden."

"But you'll still be there."

"Yeah, but even being a few seconds away, I'm leaving you unprotected," John argued. "And you don't know how to defend yourself."

Now John was making him nervous. Sam rushed to reassure him and himself. "But doesn't she need me for a ritual? And that takes at least some preparation." Sam smirked as he went on. "You'll have plenty of time to rush in and be the hero," he joked, hoping to relieve some of the tension.

"I still don't like it," John grumbled.

Sam stood up then, wanting to finish the conversation. "Want any breakfast before we get started?" he asked, absently knocking a knuckle against the desktop.

John shook his head. "Nah, not hungry."

"All right. Well, I'm going to McDonald's, and you can go take a shower or whatever," he said as he walked towards the door. Just as he left, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of John leaning over and placing his head in his hands.

ooOOoo

John armed Sam with several knives and blades, weapons he could hide underneath his clothes, while he armed himself with the bigger ones, a shotgun and revolver. They knew the rituals have extended her life, but they didn't know whether they left her invulnerable or not. John guessed they didn't, explaining that taking someone else's life-force only replaced your own, and nothing more. In essence, taking a stronger life to restore a weaker, fading one, which - he assumed - wouldn't give that person any special powers.

But he wasn't confident about that.

"What if she _is_ invincible?" Sam had asked from the passenger side of John's car.

"Then we're screwed," John replied simply, not taking his eyes off of the road.

Sam gaped at him. He wasn't serious, was he?

At least he seemed to have regained some of his glib confidence. "Should we call the police?" Sam asked.

"And tell them what? That a 200-year-old witch is stealing people's lives?"

"That Annie Smith murdered Janine Larson," he replied.

John shook his head. "We don't have any proof. The only way they could hold her is if they caught her in the act. And we're not going to let it get that far." He shot a pointed glance at Sam.

Fifteen minutes later, Sam told John to turn off the road and park. The pull that had guided him since he woke up sharpened into a powerful tug, and he knew they were close. Soon Sam and John were walking through the forest, armed respectively with knives and guns.

At least Sam thought John was walking through the forest with him, even though he couldn't see nor hear him. The older man knew how to sneak about without making a sound, a talent that could only come from years of practice. Sam was definitely impressed by the repertoire of skills he had developed.

Sam, on the other hand, trampled through the underbrush. After all, there was no real reason he needed to sneak up on Annie. Even though John was doing great at being silent, Sam wanted to create more noise than he normally would, just in case he needed to cover any sounds John might accidentally make.

Of course, making extra noise was probably unnecessary – his heart was pounding so hard he was sure Annie could hear it.

He tried not to think about how his feet knew where to take him, even though he had never been through this part of the woods before. The place where Janine had been killed was well over a mile away. Most likely Annie didn't want to chance any curiosity seekers wandering onto the site.

Yeah, Annie wouldn't want anyone accidentally walking in on her sucking the life out of him.

_Oh, God._ Sam really hoped John was keeping up.

And then he saw the rock outcropping and knew he was there.

He didn't know, though, what he was supposed to do next. Annie wasn't in sight, and after a few short moments of silence, he started to look around.

The rock formation was made from several large boulders piled naturally together. It was covered mostly in moss and had a few saplings breeching through the cracks, and the entire thing only came up to Sam's chest. He circled around it.

He found Annie sitting on the other side.

Sam's heart jumped in surprise. It was the strangest, most anticlimactic greeting he could have imagined. She sat calmly on the ground, her back resting against the rock and her legs folded loosely in front of her. "Hello there," she greeted, looking up at him.

Sam didn't know what kind of outfit he was expecting – something black, maybe something with a corset – but he never pictured the ripped jeans and old t-shirt that she wore. Even her dark blonde hair had been pulled up into a messy ponytail. She looked like she was about to work on a car or in a garden.

Then Sam realized with a sickening feeling that her real work could get her dirty too.

"I'm so glad you came," she told him as she pushed herself up from the ground. "I could really use your help."

"Is that right?" Sam replied, taking a step backwards, his hand inching towards one of his knives.

"Uh-huh," she nodded, following him. "You're suspicious. Most people aren't."

Then her hand lashed out towards his neck.

Without time to think, Sam instantly dodged with a quarter spin as his own arms came up to block the blow. In the next instant he stepped away from a knee to his groin, a move so quick it had happened before he even realized it.

He was just as surprised by his speed as Annie seemed to be.

Unfortunately, Annie recovered a split second sooner, and she took advantage by wrapping an arm around his neck and bringing him down. As Sam struggled to free himself, he distantly wondered when John would make an appearance.

"Sam!" he finally heard John shout. John wasn't anywhere near silent this time as he crashed towards them.

It only took a few seconds for Sam to break free and he scrambled for his knife. But that brief moment was just enough for Annie to clamp a hand around his nose. He didn't realize it until he felt it, but she had some kind of fabric in her hands. A strange scent filled his nostrils, and just as he wretched himself from her grasp, he felt his knees buckle.

But a darkness filled Sam's eyes, and his head suddenly grew too heavy, pulling him downwards. Sam toppled over, barely feeling it when his body slammed against the ground and his head landed with a jarring thud. Then all sensation and thought left him.

ooOOoo

The first thing Sam became aware of was a soft steam of words worming through his ears. His mind struggled to make sense of it, but it was in a language he didn't know. Once he realized that, he forced his unusually heavy eyelids open.

A dizzying sense of vertigo overcame him when he realized he was standing upright, his arms and legs spread wide. His limbs automatically tried to jerk into a more natural position, but they were bound, and Sam was suddenly aware of the rough burn of rope digging into his wrists and ankles.

His arms were outstretched at his sides, each tied to a tree just below shoulder height. His legs were also pulled out, just past shoulder-width, also tied to each tree. But he didn't have any time to give the bindings much thought.

Annie stood in front of him, only her lips moving as she chanted. Her eyes flickered when she saw he was awake, but she didn't stop. As her voice rose into a crescendo, she stretched her arms up towards him.

Sam tried to jerk his head away, but he didn't have enough room to move it out of reach. Her hands wrapped around the sides of his head, her thumbs digging into his forehead. She tilted her head down as the concentration on her face sharpened.

Something like electricity jolted through his skull. It felt as if he were being constantly shocked. His entire head vibrated. The pain wasn't excruciating, but it was strong enough that he couldn't concentrate. He couldn't even form a thought - let alone some sort of plan or strategy to get away.

And then a thought slipped through his buzzing mind.

John? Where's John?

Suddenly it stopped. His head cleared, the energy flow vanished. Immediately he scanned the woods before him.

"Sam!"

John was there, a wide-eyed look on his face. As Sam heard his shout, he realized John had been shouting even since he had woken up – only it was just now penetrating through to Sam's awareness.

Like Sam, he too was strung up between two trees. They had been positioned so that they faced each other, separated by thirty feet or so. John thrashed against his bonds, struggling to no avail to break free. Sam was shocked to see blood soaking both of his sleeves.

But he didn't have time to find out why before he was distracted by Annie. He watched as she dropped her arms from his head and stepped backwards. A shocked look was written across her face.

"Damn it all!" she cursed under her breath.

Sam looked at her in bewilderment. She crossed her arms and studied him as she started to explain. "Your mind has already been tampered with," she told him. "It's no good to me."

Sam frowned at her. "What do you mean, it's been tampered with?"

"A part of it is blocked."

Sam felt his eyes widened as realization overcame him. Janine had been depressed when she was killed. That explained why the symbol on her forehead had been dark - something was wrong with her mind. Sam was here because Annie needed a new victim, to replace the mental energies she was unable to use from the other woman.

"You're right," Sam replied triumphantly. "I had a mental breakdown. Selective amnesia. You can't use me for your ritual!"

She cocked her head, drawing her eyebrows together. "What do you know about the ritual?" she asked, her voice filled with surprise.

"Oh, I know a lot about you," answered Sam darkly. "I know you're two hundred years old. I know you're a witch who has been killing people just so she can live. I know you murdered Janine Larson."

She blinked and raised her eyebrows. "I'm impressed. But I prefer the term sacrifice to murder." A smile came over her face when she saw his scowl. "It's all about survival, Sam. I'm sure you can understand. Those of us with an advantage triumph over those who are weaker."

"You think that justifies killing people?"

"People live and die every day for no reason," she replied. "Like my husband, my son - they just got sick. Their deaths didn't do anybody any good. At least the people who I sacrifice don't die in vain. It's almost heroic, don't you think?"

Sam felt sick. But he knew he couldn't change her mind, not after she had spent the past two hundred years convincing herself. "You can't justify killing me," he argued instead. "I'm no good to you."

"No, you're not." Annie sighed. "You know, I've run into a bit of bad luck. I chose Janine because she seemed healthy and intelligent--but the chemicals in her mind were all wrong. Unbalanced. So I needed to find someone else."

"So you chose me."

She stepped closer to him. "When I saw you coming from the library wearing that university shirt, I thought, well you must have a strong mind. _And_ you were from out of town. It was perfect." She snorted derisively at that. Sam just glared at her, unable to do anything else.

"Good thing I read you first," she went on. "It would have been a pain to go through the entire ritual, only to have it fail like last time. But what are the chances I'd select two people with poor minds?"

She shook her head, blinking up at him. "It seems we are both facing strange coincidences, doesn't it?" she asked mockingly. "So, Sam, who's been in your mind before me?"

Sam frowned, surprised by her question. "No one," he told her wearily. "I just had some psychological problems."

"No, there is definitely a magical imprint," Annie replied with confidence. "There's an unnatural energy that's blocking your mind from me. It's tainted, Sam."

Sam felt his breath catch deep in his chest as he tried to comprehend what she was saying.

"Sam!" John shouted out suddenly, disrupting his thoughts. "Don't listen to her! She's just trying to confuse you!"

"Quiet!" Annie called back. Sam heard her muttering a string of words, and then John said no more, even though his mouth was still moving. An outraged look colored John's face, and his struggles to free himself immediately strengthened.

Sam drew in a deep breath. Her words had shocked him, but he didn't have time. He had to get himself and John away from her. "Well, in any case," he told her arrogantly, "You can't use me."

"No. Good thing I have a spare." She glanced over her shoulder at John, who was actively glaring at her.

Even though his heart skipped a beat, Sam forced to keep himself calm. "Who? John?" He laughed. "He's just as messed up as I am."

She smirked at him, obviously skeptical. Sam went on. "Look at him! Does he look like a clean guy? Hell, he's been doing drugs ever since he was twelve!" he told her in a rush, talking as quickly as he could think. It was the first thing he could come up with, and he ran with it. "Do you have any idea what that does to a person's brain?" he asked. "I don't know if you live in a house or a cave, but even you must have seen the commercial with the egg and frying pan."

But Annie just shrugged. "Well, a simple mind read should tell me the truth." Sam tried to protest some more, but she ignored him as she started making her way towards John.

Sam sagged in his ropes, ignoring the pain in his wrists. At least the process wasn't too painful, and it gave him a little bit of time. He wished he knew just how much, but he had woken up in the middle of her little incantation and didn't know how much he missed.

Sam immediately started working at the ropes, trying to twist his hands free. He pulled and tugged as hard as he could, gritting his teeth. The ropes scraped against his skin, and it wasn't long before his wrists were slick with blood. Sam tried to push through the pain, ignoring the way the stiff broken strands of the rope rubbed against the already inflamed, bloodied skin.

Annie had started her chanting, but she hadn't raised her arms yet. Sam only spared her a glance before staring at his hands again as he pulled and yanked and twisted.

The rope around his right hand had a little bit more give, so he focused his concentration on that. By now, blood soaked his entire wrist and lower palm, and though it stung, it made the binds slide more easily. If he could just get the rope past the bony part at the base of his thumb, he'd be free.

Sam bit down hard on his entire bottom lip as he gave his hand one savage yank. The rope scraped deeply across his hand, taking a thin layer of flesh with it as he pulled his hand through the rough loop.

But his hand slipped free.

A rush of air blew into his lungs as he was filled with instant relief. Across from him, Annie had now lifted her arms to John's head. He was surprised he didn't see any visible signs of the spell – no blue electric bolts or black mists or anything. But he knew by John's twisted expression that the spell was happening. He could tell John was no longer aware of anything, too submerged in the constant shocking pain Sam had already experienced.

Fortunately, Annie was also too absorbed to notice Sam.

Sam didn't waste a single moment once his hand was free. He immediately reached into the waistband of his jeans were he had slipped a knife. With that in hand, he got to work on the ropes that still held his other limbs, sawing furiously at the rope until it gave away.

Then, finally, he was completely free.

And armed.

He started creeping towards Annie and John. Though he tread carefully, he feared that his footsteps against the leaf-covered ground would alert Annie. But to his surprise, his steps were silent as he stalked towards them.

Annie slowly lowered her hands from John's forehead. Since her back was to Sam, he couldn't see her expression and didn't know whether it worked or not. It didn't really matter, though. He'd stop her before she started the main ritual.

Finally, Sam was close enough to attack. He tightened his grip on the knife and leapt forward.

Just as he was about to slip an arm around her neck, Annie spun around to face him. He could tell by her wide eyes he had surprised her. Even though he had been caught, he still had the advantage, and he showed her the knife to prove it.

"Go, Sammy," John cheered, but Sam was surprised by how weak his voice sounded. He thought maybe it was because the silencing spell was just wearing off, but now that he was closer, he could see the wounds on his arms more clearly, and he realized how serious they were. On his right arm, a deep gash ripped through the sleeve of his t-shirt and the skin below it. On his left, to Sam's horror, he saw the handle of a knife which was still stuck in his arm.

Sam refocused on Annie, who was glaring at him while eyeing the knife in his hand.

"This stops here, Annie," he told her firmly, brandishing the knife. "I'm going to cut my friend free, and then the three of us are taking a trip downtown." He winced at his own words and quickly tried to redeem himself. "To the police station," he corrected. Which only made it worse.

But the hand holding the knife never wavered, and that's all that mattered.

"You're not going to take me alive," Annie replied defiantly.

Sam just shrugged. "Fine then. Your choice." Despite his forced coolness, he hoped she wouldn't take it that far. He didn't think he could stomach killing a human, even if she deserved it. But he would if he had to.

Annie moved suddenly. In one quick motion, she spun towards John, grabbed the knife stuck in his arm, and yanked it out. John let out a pained cry, and he very nearly passed out if he didn't completely.

Without slowing, Annie whirled back around. But before she could do anything with her new weapon, Sam slid forward and pressed the tip of his blade into her neck. He glared at her, daring her to move.

Annie gave him a defiant look. "If I die, your brother dies with me."

Sam almost faltered at that, but even though her threat worried him, he forced a indifferent attitude. If he could get her to believe that he'd risk John's life, maybe he could call her bluff.

So he smirked and shook his head. "My brother's already dead," he told her cheekily, raising his eyebrows. "And I barely even know John."

Annie's reaction, instead of looking crestfallen like Sam had hoped, was full of surprise. Her eyes widened and her jaw drop.

"Oh, ho!" she chortled. "That explains so much. You really don't know!"

"Know what?" Sam replied guardedly, pressing the blade tip even closer to her throat.

"Don't listen to her, Sam!" John gasped hoarsely, suddenly coming alive. His body strained against his bonds as he shouted at him. "She lied to me too, said you wouldn't wake up either. She's just trying-"

But then Annie held up a hand and pointed a finger at Sam's forehead, and John instantly fell into fearful, apprehensive silence.

"Who did you kiss last?" she asked a stunned Sam.

"Jessica Lee Moore." The words were out of his mouth at once. Sam clamped his mouth shut in shock, horrified that the answer came against his will, angry that he was forced to speak her name out loud. And confused that Annie would want to know.

But Annie didn't even pause to acknowledge his answer. As soon as he had spoken, she spun around to face John.

John was shaking his head furiously at her, his feet scraping against the ground. He struggled to push himself backwards, shrinking away from her as far as his tight bonds would let him, vainly trying to get away. Desperation made his eyes wild.

Ignoring him, Annie raised her arm and pointed at his forehead.

"What is your name?" she demanded coolly.

Sam could see him trying to hold them back, could see the way he kept his jaw clenched tight. But the words flew from his mouth heedlessly.

"Dean Michael Winchester."

* * *

_to be continued..._


	21. Chapter 21

_Bah, sorry for the wait! I gotta stop making promises. To make up for it, here's another kinda-long chapter. Sorry for any mistakes or confusions that may follow - I got impatient._

* * *

Sam stumbled backwards, the air rushing from his lungs. The hand holding the knife dropped unnoticed to his side as he stared at John—at _Dean_. Shock and horror kept him from speaking. He couldn't think, couldn't even breathe.

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Dean sagged in his bonds, his face pale and stricken. He was watching Sam, his hazel eyes wavering, but he too remained silent, save for the heavy breaths that caused his chest to heave.

The two stared at each other as time seemed to stop. Sam didn't move, but after a moment Dean shifted, suddenly dropping his head as he tore his gaze away. "Sam...I..."

Sam kept staring at him, his throat closing so he couldn't respond. Dean, unable to avoid his relentless stare, eventually raised his head.

His eyes widened in alarm.

Even as he was shouting out a warning, Sam followed his line of sight and saw Annie just as she swiped her knife at him. Sam wretched his back backward, swerving out of the way just as the knife slashed through the air where his neck had been.

The guard he had let down slammed back up and he let his instincts kick in. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, twisting it away from him until her grip slackened and the knife fell to the ground. Backing away, her wrist still caught in Sam's grasp, Annie leveled her eyes at him and started to murmur something. Before she could finish, Sam quickly dropped her wrist and punched her in the mouth.

She wasn't invincible after all. Her head jerked back but popped forward again, and the corner of her lip was stained with blood. But then in a strange sort of delayed reaction, her whole body suddenly jerked backwards as if struck, and she fell to the ground.

Sam was confused for only a split second before he realized she had faked the collapse so she could grab her knife again. He lashed out his foot, kicking the knife so that it skidded across the forest floor.

"Sam, my gun!" Dean shouted. "Front of the rock!"

Sam's eyes widened. He'd forgotten that the other man had come armed. He whirled around and raced towards the rock outcropping, which sat just off to the side. He was there in three quick strides.

Just as Annie was staggering to her feet, her hand clutching the knife, Sam turned and leveled the handgun at her chest.

They stood facing each other in a stalemate, positioned in front of Dean, the three of them forming a triangle. Sam had to ignore the other man, refused to even think of him, focusing solely on Annie.

"You're not going to kill me," Annie taunted. Keeping a tight grip on her knife, she started to edge backwards.

"Wanna bet?" he replied calmly, following her with the gun as he stepped closer.

She raised her eyebrows and then flicked her gaze towards Dean, who still hung from the trees, his arms tugging weakly at the ropes. Sam remembered her earlier threat that if she died, so would his brother.

"Don't even try that again," Sam warned her. "'Cause I'll take my chances."

"I don't believe you," she retorted, taking another step away. "If you were going to kill me, you would have done so by now."

"Just give me a reason, and I will," he told her coldly.

She looked back at him, her face full of defiance.

"Drop the knife, Annie."

"Sorry, Sam, but I can't do that." And then her lips started to move, and Sam realized she was trying another spell.

He lowered his gun and shot a bullet into the ground, right at her feet. Annie jumped in surprise, her incantation abruptly cut off. But she reacted instantly, leaping to the side at a forward angle and bursting into a sprint.

Sam almost shot her, but he didn't act quick enough, couldn't get himself to shoot her when all he saw was her back and side. And then she was at Dean's side, a knife pressed against his throat before he found the courage to squeeze the trigger.

Sam's hands almost shook, but he just gripped the gun tighter.

Keeping a careful eye on Sam, she slithered around Dean, ducking underneath the rope and stepping over his outstretched leg. The bound man became a shield, and she peered over his shoulder at Sam with triumphant pride. Sam couldn't get to her without risking Dean.

Sam looked at the other man then—his _brother,_ Sam amended, the term echoing hollowly through his head. Dean stared back at him with attempted stoicism, but he failed miserably, only looking helpless and defeated despite his hardened face.

"What are you going to do now, Sam?" Annie asked from behind him. She snaked her arm under his armpit and up around his neck, the edge of her knife resting against the far side of his throat.

She spoke with forced calmness, but she was breathless with adrenaline and panic. Just as Sam was.

"This is all very interesting," she remarked in between pants. Sam watched her warily, his eyes burning, as she regained composure and her breathing evened out. She cocked her head, a sly smirk spreading across her face.

"Why he didn't want you to know he was your brother?" she wondered out loud with mock curiosity.

Dean's eyes squinted in pain and he twisted his head to the side. The movement dug the knife into his skin, nicking him just enough that a drop of blood appeared and slipped down his throat. Sam looked at him for a quick moment before turning back to the woman behind him.

"I think maybe," she continued in a drawl, "He wanted you out of the picture."

Sam forced his breath through his nose, but it came out shaky and loud. He shifted the gun in his hands, making sure it was pointed at her forehead.

In retaliation, she dug the knife deeper into Dean's neck. "I'm sure you don't want me to kill him," she went on, grinning. "At least, not until you get some answers." Her eyes flashed wickedly. "Isn't that right?"

"Drop the knife, Annie," Sam hissed.

"Hasn't he been lying to you? Obviously you can't trust what he says," she pointed out, unconcerned. She tilted her head. "So how long has this been going on, Sam?"

Sam gritted his teeth, refusing to answer. By now, Dean's eyes were squeezed shut, his eyebrows pressed together.

"What do you say, Sam? Should I make him talk? Would you like to hear what he has to say?"

She tapped the back of his left knee, causing it to buckle. The sudden loss of support put all of his weight on his arm, and as he fell, it caused his arm to tug hard at its bonds, pulling sharply at his wound. "Maybe I'll even hurt him a little," Annie added over Dean's cry of pain. He quickly righted himself, locking his leg underneath himself, but his face was still pinched.

"Get away from him," Sam growled at her.

"It's only a quick incantation," she went on lightly. "You've been through it. Doesn't hurt."

Sam shifted his stance. His forehead was sweating in the Texas heat, but his lips were dry, and he licked them nervously.

"Wouldn't you like me to ask something?" Annie suggested. "I'm sure you have plenty of questions."

Sam tried to ignore Dean, who was watching him again. The other man's breath came out ragged and loud, and his chest rose and fell unevenly.

Sam tilted his head forward.

"Can you do it from back there?" he asked her.

She shook her head slightly, a small smile lifting the corner of her lip. "Not effectively," she admitted. "I need to be face to face. Helps me focus."

"All right." Sam lifted his chin and then nodded. "Do it."

She flicked her eyes towards the gun still aimed at her head. "Drop that first."

He studied her for a long moment. Then he looked at Dean, whose eyes seemed to be pleading with him. "All right," he agreed.

He rotated the gun so that it pointed harmlessly sideways as he crouched down on bent knees. With slow, deliberate motions he lowered the gun onto the ground, looking up at Annie as she watched him warily.

"Sam…" Dean said, but he ignored him.

When he came back up, Annie nodded to herself. "All right," she said, her voice with hesitant relief. "Kick the gun away."

He did, his foot pushing it so it slid about ten feet away.

She raised her eyebrows. "You really need answers, don't you Sam?" He cocked his head impatiently, and a full smile spread across her face. Keeping the knife against Dean's throat, she rotated back around, climbing between his outstretched limbs so that she stood in front of him again.

"If I do this spell," she said. "You have to swear that you'll let me do my ritual."

When Sam didn't answer right away, she went on. "I don't have to kill him, you know," she told him lightly. "All I need is his mind."

Sam looked past her at his brother. Dean's face had no color left in it, and he held his head so tensely, his jaw clenched so tightly, that his eyes seemed to vibrate.

"Fine," Sam replied, nodding once at Annie. "Do it."

She turned to face Sam completely, still holding her knife behind her against Dean. Her free arm came up and pointed at Sam's forehead, just as she had done before. "Do you swear - on your life?"

"I swear," Sam answered instantly. "If you get him to tell the truth, I'll let you do the ritual."

Annie drew in a deep breath. She took a couple of steps forward and the hand holding the knife dropped from Dean's neck. She quickly brought it forward, pointing it at Sam. "I don't want you standing behind me," she said, motioning him forward with a toss of her head.

Sam complied, silently coming up to her side.

"All right, let's do this," she announced. She started turning toward Dean, but she kept a watchful eye on Sam. Sam held his hands innocently outspread, showing that they were empty.

"No," Dean whispered. "Please. Not like this."

Sam ignored him, refusing to look at him. "Do it," he told her again. After a brief hesitation, she nodded and turned to face Dean completely.

Just as her arm started to rise, Sam attacked.

He rammed into her with his shoulder, the force knocking her to the ground. She landed with a cry and immediately rolled over onto her back. While she was down, Sam started for the gun which lay just out of reach.

Annie's leg kicked out, and as Sam jumped to avoid it, her other foot hooked around his ankle. Before he could react, she yanked his leg out from under him.

He fell onto his knees but instantly used his legs to push himself back up as he scrambled across the ground. Stretching his arm out, he reached for the gun, sucking in a breath when his hand closed around cold steel.

They rose up at the same time. She held a knife but he held the gun.

"Time to give up, Annie," he said.

But she already knew that. "Like I said," she replied, panting. "You're not taking me alive." She raised her arms straight from her sides and let the knife fall from her hand. It tumbled harmlessly to the ground.

"Shoot me, Sam," she told him. "And go home with your _brother_."

Sam glared at her even as his jaw twitched and his hands started to shake. After a moment his vision started to blur.

And then suddenly the forest erupted with sound and voices. People rushed in, police officers Sam realized distractedly, shouting commands. He never took his eyes off Annie, never lowered the gun, even though he knew it looked bad. One of the cops yelled at him, but Sam couldn't make out the words over the roar in his ears. Maybe he should drop the gun, he thought, but then the cop stopped shouting, shushed by another, lower voice.

Annie's eyes hardened then, and she darted away from him. Sam let her go. But she wasn't fast enough, and one of the officers tackled her to the ground.

Once she was on the ground, handcuffs slapped around her wrists, Sam let himself sag, suddenly drained. He turned away from her, absently tucking the gun into the back of his jeans, and his eye caught Dean.

The other man stared back at him, sick and pale and defeated. Activity continued to swirl around the two of them. Sam was dimly aware of the figures moving past him, but his eyes never left Dean's face.

Suddenly Sam couldn't take it. He finally broke his gaze, dropping his eyes to the ground, and stepped forward. Without a word, no longer able to look at Dean's eyes, he grabbed one of the fallen knives and began sawing through his bonds. He started at his feet, and when they were free, he rose and began working on his arms.

They stood inches from each other, close enough that Sam could feel the air move as Dean breathed. Sam concentrated on the rope, watching as they frayed under the force of the knife. Once the ropes were no longer supporting Dean's arms, they fell to his side. He held them stiffly, the blood now dripping sluggishly down to his hands.

Sam stepped back.

"Lord, Dean, are you all right?"

With a jump, Sam blinked at the middle-aged woman who had suddenly appeared beside them. He realized she must have been Lieutenant Stevens, the woman who had called him to Crider. And he suddenly realized why Dean had dropped him off at the hotel that day when he went to interview her. She knew who Dean was, even when his own brother didn't.

Dean grunted in reply, and Sam couldn't tell if he was answering in the affirmative or not. "Officer Stevens, I'm sorry, but I—we need to get out of here."

She hesitated, squinting at them through sympathetic eyes. "Dean, I can't...We need you guys if we're to charge her with any crime." Dean shook his head, refused to accept her answer.

There was a startled shout behind her, and all three of them twisted around to look. Sam bit back a gasp at the sight. Annie was sprawled on the ground, legs and elbows askew like a limp doll. Two police officers stood around looking dumbfounded while another crouched beside her, a hand pressed against Annie's neck.

"What happened?" Stevens demanded.

"She...She's dead!" the officer on the ground shouted back.

"_What?_"

"I don't know what happened," another one reported, taking a few steps towards Stevens with his arms spread. "She just collapsed."

"Did she say anything?" Sam asked, startling the man.

"Um, yeah, she did. But I couldn't understand it," he replied.

Annie's words ran through his head. _You're not going to take me alive. _Sam nodded slowly, looking at her lifeless body.

"Well, the ambulance should be here shortly," Stevens told the other officers. "We'll let them handle her." She turned back to Dean. "Do you think you can walk back to the road, or should we get a stretcher in here?" she asked gently.

He shook his head stiffly. "Sam'll take care of it," he told her. Sam noticed he refused to look at him, but he didn't protest.

But Stevens did. "Dean..." she said. "You really should have those looked at."

Dean just set his jaw. "No. I can't." Then he did glance at Sam, though only through the corner of his eye. "Sam will take of me."

She stared at him for a moment longer and then relented. "All right. But only because I'm sure Sam knows a thing or two about fixing your ass." Her words were softened by a half-smile, and she patted Sam on the shoulder.

"And make sure he takes care of your wrists too, Sam," she added, nodding at the blood that hadn't yet dried along his right hand. Sam had forgotten all about his own wounds, but as soon as she pointed them out, his wrists started to throb with pain.

He quickly refocused his attention as Stevens continued. "I was real sorry you weren't able to visit the other day with Dean," she was saying. "It's great seeing you again, just wish it was under better circumstances."

Sam's eyes widened, but he quickly recovered. "Yeah, I know, great seeing you too," he replied with a half-smile. Inside, his stomach flipped. How many other people did he know but couldn't remember?

He felt dizzy and numb.

"But I'm not going to help you sneak out of here," she went on. "You're on your own."

She gave them a sad smile, giving Sam's shoulder another pat. Then she turned around and started towards the others, pulling out a walkie-talkie. Just as she started talking into it, Dean tapped Sam softly on the arm and then turned the other way, slipping deeper into the woods.

He paused briefly to pick up his shotgun but then continued on, never looking to see if Sam was following.

Sam watched his back for a few moments. Then he started behind him.

Their strides were quick and silent as they hurried away from the crime scene. Sam, with his longer legs, soon caught up with his brother. But even as they walked side by side, neither of them spoke.

They had to make a wide arc to get back to the car, so despite their speed, the journey took longer. Or maybe it seemed longer to Sam, who wanted only to get back to the hotel room so he could demand answers, or maybe take a long nap.

They were within feet of the car when Dean suddenly stumbled. Sam was there instantly. "Sorry," Dean mumbled as Sam wrapped an arm around his back, careful of his arms. Sam didn't answer as he helped Dean as they stepped out of the woods.

Dean's back was stiff, tense, and Sam thought he would have shaken off his help if the situation had been different.

The road was empty as they came up to the car. "When I called the police, I gave them directions from the west," Dean explained at Sam's confused expression.

Sam nodded in understanding. Dean would know how to think ahead, would have experience escaping tricky situations. He felt a jab of anger in his stomach, suddenly wondering just how good Dean was at making clean getaways, leaving behind places and brothers without a second glance.

Sam eased his arm from Dean, feeling that he could stand on his own the few steps it took to reach the car door. To Sam's astonishment, Dean headed for the driver's side.

"Give me the keys," Sam said firmly. "I'm driving."

Dean felt strongly enough to shoot him a look, but Sam stood resolved. "Aw, c'mon, won't you let your own brother drive your car?" he asked sarcastically. He knew it was dirty, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

It worked. His shoulders slumping, Dean handed him the keys and he veered back to the passenger side while Sam climbed into the driver's seat. Sam waited until Dean was settled in before he started the car.

Before he could pull away, Dean spoke, his voice raspy. "Can you reach into the backseat, grab that towel?" he asked. Sam took pity and leaned over until his hand felt the texture of terrycloth. He pulled the hand towel back with him and started to hand it to Dean. "Wrap that around your right hand," Dean said instead.

Sam frowned, looking down at his wrist. It still throbbed painfully, and blood was sluggishly running down from the abrasions the rope had cut into his hand. But as rough as it was, the wound wasn't nearly as bad as Dean's.

"You're the one driving," Dean explained.

Suddenly understanding, Sam wiped the blood from both his hands on the towel and then wrapped it around the wounds on his right wrist. He tied the ends firmly, securing it tight. The pressure of the cloth pressing into his wrist and thumb took his mind off the pain, and the towel soaked up the oozing blood.

Dean, for his part, sat stiffly beside him, hunching his arms inwards so that any blood would drip into his lap. Sam found himself unsurprised that Dean would rather sit uncomfortably and ruin his jeans than get blood on his car. It was too late for his steering wheel, Sam thought, eyeing his hands and the blood-soaked towel.

The drive back to the hotel was just as silent as the walk to the car had been, but the tension in the closed, confined space felt thicker. Sam was desperate to say something, but he wanted to wait. He needed to give his full attention so he could watch Dean, so he could look at his eyes. He needed all the information he could get, even – or especially – the emotions he hoped Dean felt.

He _needed_ Dean to feel something. He wondered what it all meant – the lost memories, the sightings of Dean in Stanford, the secrets he was keeping, the lies he and the Warrens have told him over that past year – everything.

Most of all, he needed to know why.

But not until they were shut away safe in the hotel room. Maybe then he would understand why the ache he felt now was so...real.

Halfway to the hotel, Dean rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. Sam didn't think he actually fell asleep, but he didn't move again until Sam pulled into a parking spot. Once Sam turned the car off, Dean opened his eyes and sat back up.

He kept his gaze forward, staring at the door of their hotel room. "I'm sorry, Sam," he whispered after a moment.

Sam waited to see if he would say more, but when he didn't, he pushed open the car door and got out. Dean followed a few seconds later, standing a few feet behind him as Sam inserted the room keycard into the lock.

The first aid kit was always kept on the bathroom counter. That was one of the first things "John" had told him. Sam went straight for it, aware of Dean's eyes on his back as he crossed the room. Without a word, he grabbed it, some towels, and the ice bucket which he filled with water. Then he turned back around.

"It might be easier if you sit in the desk chair," Sam said. Dean obeyed without a word and Sam took a seat across from him at the edge of the bed.

Once again, Sam was tending to this man's injuries. The last time, back on the floor in his bedroom, he hadn't known the man before him. This time, sitting across from him in the hotel room, he still didn't know who he was.

Sam kept his face impassive as he set out his supplies around him. With a wet towel, he cleaned the blood from both of Dean's arms, needing to refill the ice bucket three times when the water grew too red. As gently as he could, he swiped the cheap hotel towel over the bloodied skin, trying not to scrub too hard at the blood that had dried.

He knew Dean was watching his face, but Sam kept his focus on the injuries. Fortunately, the bleeding had slowed, and he didn't think Dean was in any mortal danger.

Sam took his time, determined to be as thorough and efficient as he could. Dean's injuries were the worst Sam had ever had personal contact with - at least as far as he could remember – and, despite whatever Sam was feeling, he wanted to make sure they were properly cleaned and treated.

Besides, tending to his wounds kept Sam's mind from exploding.

He disinfected the opened skin, forcing himself to ignore the hiss of pain Dean failed to hold back. Then he dug out the suture kit and started to stitch his wounds close. It took all of his concentration, and he could only hope he was doing it right. Sweat broke out along his hairline, but he pushed through his nervousness, keeping his hand steady as he threaded the needle through Dean's skin.

Once he finished that, he went through the first aid kit again. Finding a couple of pads, he pressed one to each wound and held them in place with gauze. The entire time, his eyes never drifted up past Dean's neck.

"Will you say something?" Dean finally asked, just as Sam finished wrapping his arm.

Then Sam did look at him, lifting his head to meet Dean's eyes. He couldn't tell if Dean's face was pale from blood loss or something else, but he looked on the verge of collapsing.

"Are you really my brother?" he asked. He knew it was stupid. He would have denied it long before then if he wasn't. But Sam needed to hear the confirmation, needed to hear him actually say it.

"Yes, I am," Dean replied. His answer hung heavy between them.

"And St. Louis?" Sam asked. "I thought you killed—you died—" he stopped, frustrated. "You told me you were 25."

"That was a shapeshifter," Dean explained. "He looked like me when he died, and so that's how the police identified him." Sam didn't know what a shapeshifter was, but he figured he got the general idea. The Warrens seemed to trust him, so he had to accept that as the truth for now. "And I lied," Dean added with a shrug, answering Sam's last point.

"Well, that's not the biggest lie you've told," replied Sam harshly. He refused to acknowledge the tears that started to blur his vision.

"Why didn't you _tell _me?" he asked.

Dean had to have expected the question, but he wasn't ready with an answer. In that bit of silence, Sam was too impatient to let it stand, and he pressed forward. "You dumped me off in Stanford, didn't you?"

"I didn't _dump_ you—"

"So what happened? Did we get into a fight? Did you beat me up?"

"_What_? No!" Dean exclaimed, horrified.

"I had cuts and bruises all over," Sam argued.

Realization lit Dean's face, and he sighed. "That came from a hunt," he said. "A goatman in Boise."

Well, that wasn't the first thing Sam was expecting. "A—a _goatman_?" he gaped at him.

"Yeah, scientific experiment gone awry," Dean replied in a tone that said he'd repeated that phrase before.

Sam narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "So we used to hunt together?" Dean nodded tightly, and Sam wasn't sure if he should be surprised. That explained his eight month absence. He would have asked more, but instead, he clenched his jaw and swallowed.

"So why did you abandon me?" he demanded, even as his voice cracked. "Because I went crazy? You thought I'd be a burden?"

Dean's eyes flashed with alarm as he stiffened in his chair. An uneasy look came over his face, and Sam wanted to look away but couldn't. Dean cleared his throat. "You...you didn't go crazy," he told him.

Sam shifted impatiently, annoyed that he was avoiding his question. "Okay, maybe not technically, but-"

"You _didn't_ go crazy."

That stopped him. "What do you mean?" he asked guardedly.

Then Annie's words floated back to him. For so long he had thought he was crazy that he'd stopped questioning it, but answers started to fall into place. "Something happened to me, didn't it?" he realized. "Something supernatural."

Dean looked down at the floor.

"There was this voodoo priestess down in New Orleans..."

* * *

_to be continued..._


	22. Chapter 22

_Some frustating news, guys - I haven't started the last part of the story, and on Wednesday, I'm going away (to Disney World!) so I have no idea when the next update will be. _

_Before I go, I'll be posting four chapters. Two right now, and two tomorrow._

_And this is the tricky part. These next four chapters will either make or break this story. You'll either buy it, or you won't. Obviously I'm hoping for the former! - but I don't have any expectations.__ In any case, I hope you enjoyed the ride!_

* * *

Sam's eyes widened. "A-a voodoo…priestess?" he stammered. "A real, voodoo, priestess?" 

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "She was powerful, experienced. She practiced a lot of different magic, even developed some of her own."

Blinking hard, Sam cocked his head as he tried to arrange his thoughts. "She…did this to me?" he asked.

"Yeah, she did. She hit you with a memory spell."

A voodoo priestess. Maybe it should have bothered him more – in fact, he was sure he'd be pretty disturbed once he thought on it some more – but at the moment, a trickle of relief went through him as realization sunk in.

The whole past year--it wasn't his mind that failed him. It wasn't his fault he couldn't remember his own memories. It wasn't _him_.

Sam tried to make sense of it. "A memory spell…to erase my memory?" he asked haltingly.

Dean nodded again. "So you would forget everything that we do. Every evil, every monster, every ghost. She made you forget anything that was connected to our work."

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Even family."

"Especially family," Dean echoed.

"But...why?"

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "If you don't know about them, you can't fight them, right?"

Sam stiffened at his words, and his eyes narrowed as he looked down at his lap. He could have fought, if Dean had let him. Dean could have re-taught him everything he knew, could have retrained him.

But he dumped him instead. His own brother left him when he needed him the most.

"The spell knocked you out cold," Dean started to explain as Sam's silence grew. "And I knew you wouldn't remember anything about me once you woke up. So I took you to the only friend you had who knew about us. I asked her if she could take care of you."

Sam shook his head, feeling tears burning in his eyes, and glanced at Dean at an angle. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because, Sam," Dean replied. He clenched his fists in his lap. "It was better that way."

Sam's eyes shot to him. "How can you say that?" he hissed at him.

Even though he almost flinched, Dean replied in a resolved tone. "The only memories you had were of your life at Stanford...Hell, Sam, that was the life you've always wanted. It just made sense."

"The hell it does!" Sam shouted back. "You still should have told me!"

"And what if I did? Huh?" Dean demanded. "You _hated_ hunting, Sam. So why should I make you chose between the two when you didn't need to?"

Sam glared at him, outraged. What kind of stupid question was that? Dean went on, his voice livid. "Don't you realize how dangerous this job is? What it turns you into? This was your only chance to be completely free of it!"

"So...you decided to just give me up? Let me go?" Sam retorted heatedly. "While you were left behind, playing the martyr?"

Dean reacted violently to that. "No, Sam! _No_," he said severely. He was glaring back at him, but his face was pale and his lip was trembling. "Don't say that. _Don't_ call me that."

"What, a martyr?" Sam shot back. "Even though you gave up your own brother, never even told him you existed—just because it was easier for him? Just because you thought I'd be--what?--_happier_?"

Sam jumped to his feet, needing an outlet for the emotions boiling inside him and unable to find one. Dean's eyes followed him as he started to protest. "No, Sam, you don't—"

"I don't _what_?"

But Dean didn't finish.

"Were you _ever_ going to tell me?" Sam asked him. "Because for some reason I decided I'd go with you, I decided to give up the life I knew for you. And you still didn't tell me."

"I was going to," Dean replied softly.

"But you didn't."

"I was afraid!" his brother exploded. "Okay, Sam? I knew how you'd react, and I didn't—I wasn't ready yet."

Sam stared at him for a long moment. This was his brother, he thought. This was the man who shared his blood, the man who shared part of his life.

"For someone's who supposed to be so smart," he started bitterly. "I am so damn _stupid_."

"What?"

"I must be. You obviously thought I'd never figure this all out." When Dean tried to argue, Sam just talked over him. "And I didn't. I just followed you around like an idiot." He threw his hands into the air and turned away, staring at the wall.

"What if I stayed in Stanford?" he asked. "Did you expect me to live the entire rest of my life without my memories? Without knowing who I was?"

"No, just—only until you got settled," Dean replied weakly.

Sam just shook his head, his eyes narrowing into slits. "And when would _that_ have been?" But Dean didn't answer.

Frustrated, Sam started pacing the cramped room as new thoughts bombarded him. "I lived the past _year_ making a complete fool of myself!" he realized out loud. "I thought I'd gone crazy, I thought my family--Oh, _God_, Rebecca and Zach, they must think I'm pathetic! I can't believe that they would...This whole time, they _lied _to me! Everything was just a damn lie!"

His ranting left him shaking with emotion and he had to grab at his hair just to ground himself.

"They didn't want to," Dean was telling him. "Believe me, Sam, they only did because I told them to. You'd already lost your memories, and I made them—"

Sam closed his eyes. "Stop it, Dean, just stop it."

His energy suddenly left him, and he dropped down onto the side of his bed, his back at an angle to the other man.

"Sam..."

Sam ignored him. He thought about all the white lies "John" had told him, the lies he knew Dean constantlygave to strangers, and the enormous lie he'd just admitted to. He was sick of these lies. How could he have kept this from him?

"I thought that with this spell," Dean said in a soft voice, "You could be happy again." Sam squeezed his eyes shut as his brother continued. "I didn't want you to be hurt."

Sam hung his head, feeling tears prickling at his eyes. He sniffed, without meaning to, not realizing his nose had started to run.

He didn't know how he felt. He struggled to put his feelings in order so he could make sense of them, because right now he couldn't tell how he was supposed to feel. There were too many emotions filling his chest, and he tried to identify them. It gave him a reason to block the other man out for a moment before he could lose his composure completely.

It stung. It stung a lot.

It hurt that Dean had kept this from him, made him sick that Dean had let him go for a full year lost and confused as he tried to put pieces of himself back together. And that made him angry, more angry than he could remember ever being. His stomach churned and his chest felt tight, and he wanted to scream at him. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair. Dean had _no_ _right_ to keep that from him.

But he tried to look past those feelings, just for a moment, to figure out what the truth really meant to him.

Over the past few days, he had befriended the man named John. He knew he felt an instant connection, and he thought that had come because he was different, just like he was. Even though the two of them were almost opposites of each other, he still felt he could identify with him. He even admired him, he realized.

John had been everything he could want in an older brother. Strong, noble, flawed. A real smartass, of course. And overprotective – annoyingly so at times.

Sam could do a lot worse than having John--_Dean_ as an older brother. In fact, for a large part of the past year, he'd thought his older brother had been a sick murderer. He could admit he preferred this version.

So maybe someday he could get past this lie, this hurt. Maybe he should take some comfort that Dean had only meant to protect him. It must have been hard for him too, and he only did what he thought was best.

He had to have been under pressure when Sam was hit with the spell, maybe even panicked when it happened. He knew he didn't have much time to make the decision. The deception shouldn't have gone on as long as it had – and he was still outraged that it had – but Dean had been scared, and maybe Sam could understand that.

Sam tried to imagine what it would have been like. Knowing that when your brother woke up, he wouldn't know who you were. Knowing that college would offer him safety and familiar faces. If college was all he could remember, then maybe he could deal with his sudden memory loss more easily while surrounded by only setting he knew. And knowing what the Winchesters did for a living, telling Sam that he spent his off time hunting monsters would have just freaked him out.

And, it was a messed up life. Sam could see that.

Dean had to make a quick decision, had to move before Sam recovered. So he did the only thing he could think of - he patched him up, stuffed him into the car, and drove all the way to Stanford so he could be with friends when he woke up.

Sam froze.

He turned to Dean slowly. "Didn't you just say I was attacked by a goatman in Idaho?" he asked.

Dean nodded at him, looking startled at the sudden question. "Yeah, his hoof caught your back."

Sam turned his head to stare at the floor, his thoughts suddenly running away from him. "But...the cut on my back was fresh when I woke up. It couldn't have been more than three, maybe four days old – and I spent at least two of those days at Rebecca's."

He looked at Dean through the corner of his eye and saw that he had stiffened. "How did we have time to go all the way to New Orleans and back, Dean?"

Dean avoided his gaze suddenly as he shifted in his seat.

"We were never in New Orleans," he finally admitted.

A funny feeling started to blossom in Sam's stomach. "But then why..."

Dean licked his lips and then abruptly cut him off. "She owed me a favor."

And that little bit of understanding Sam had found shattered completely.

* * *


	23. Chapter 23

"W-what?" Sam stumbled, feeling the blood drain from his face. "What do you mean, she owed you a favor? You mean...like payback, right?"

But he knew that wasn't what he meant.

Dean's eyes looked at him, wavering, and then flicked away.

"When you were a baby, our mother was killed by a demon," he started.

Sam jerked in surprise, unprepared for that. "What?" he breathed.

"A demon killed her, right in our house. Dad found her and--Well, that was the moment that started our lives. Mom was gone and Dad learned that evil really existed."

Sam stared at him in stunned awe. His words barely sunk in before Dean continued. "Dad, he devoted his entire life to tracking that thing down--and along the way, he found there were other evils out there, too, other supernatural beings that ruined lives. And he found ways to stop them.

"That's how we grew up – he trained us to fight, and the three of us, that's all we did. We traveled across the country, hunting and fighting evil. That became who we were. Like warriors, you said once."

Sam couldn't move as Dean explained their lives to him. He listened intently as his past was revealed in a faltering summary. He was impatient, but at the same time he thought maybe he didn't want to know.

"You never liked it," Dean told him. "You saw too many kids playing soccer while Dad made you stay inside to clean your .45. You wanted out, wanted a different kind of life. So when you turned eighteen, you left. Went to college."

He shook his head with a sad smile. "You've always been so damn smart, Sammy."

Sam ducked his head, wondering how much of this was true, wondering what Dean was leading up to and why he was going through all of this.

"And you found the life you've always wanted," Dean said. "You had friends, a real career ahead of you...Hell, you even fell in love."

It shouldn't have affected him, there was no reason his eyes should have watered. But Dean's words struck something inside him, and he was suddenly apprehensive, knowing what came next.

"But then Jessica died," Sam said, preemptively, preferring to say the wordsthan to hear them.

Dean nodded.

"Yeah. She did," he said, his voice soft but gravelly. "She was killed by the same demon that killed our mom."

Sam jerked his head up, his chest suddenly seizing. "Wh-_what_?" he stammered, stunned and horrified. He immediately started to protest. "No, it was just an apartment fire..." But then he remembered his dreams, the images that haunted him.

He remembered the feel of blood on his face.

"Were they both pinned to the ceiling?" he asked suddenly, swallowing past a sudden lump in his throat.

Surprise flashed in Dean's face, but when he nodded, a dark feeling came over Sam.

Dean gave him a humorless smile. "Yeah, you had that exact same look after she died," he said, and Sam ducked his head again, unable to loosen the knot in his chest.

Dean went on. "That's why after three years of school, you decided to come with me again. And together we started hunting evil and saving lives again. Just like we used to, only Dad was gone, so it was just the two of us this time. And this time you were on the same driven mission Dad was – you wanted to kill the thing that killed Jessica. That's what motivated you, kept you going. You know?"

Sam had sunk into Dean's words, letting his monotone wash through his mind and fill in the missing pieces Sam desperately needed. But that last phrase, those two simple words spoken with uncertainty and broken indifference, ripped him back to the present. Now they were getting to the heart of the story, though he doubted Dean knew he had signaled the change with that little phrase.

"We found the demon, didn't we?" Sam concluded dimly.

Dean nodded before replying. "Yeah," he said. "Dad called us one day, asked us to join him. After all those years, he'd finally tracked it down. And he needed our help."

His eyebrows rose as he continued. "There was a long, nasty battle. Then you and Dad killed it." He spoke matter-of-factly, but his tone hid feelings Sam could only guess at.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, blinking furiously. He was relieved that the demon could no longer harm anyone, glad that it got what it deserved, but he was also unsatisfied. He wanted to remember killing it.

A memory slipped into his head. "You said your dad—our dad," Sam corrected awkwardly, "left after a rough hunt. Was that it?"

The corners of Dean's jaw clenched. "Dad devoted over twenty years of his life to hunting that demon down. But once he finally got what he wanted, he didn't know what to do with himself." He shrugged it off, but it was a stiff movement.

"So he left again. He didn't say where he was going, just that he needed to get away, needed some time to himself. To _reflect_." As much as he tried to suppress it, an edge of bitterness laced his words.

Sam sighed and closed his eyes. After a long moment, he looked back at Dean, who was absently rubbing the bandages on one of his arms.

"So how does this connect to what happened to me?" he finally forced himself to ask.

Dean took in a deep breath and started to rub the top of his thighs with the flat of his hands. "Sam...After that fight, you had nothing left in you. You were miserable and depressed and...that fire was gone. You just...Your heart wasn't in it." Blinking a couple of times, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he continued.

"I knew you were thinking about changing your mind. I could tell, you wanted to go back to Stanford."

A sick, horrified feeling started to grow inside of Sam.

"The only thing holding you back was guilt," his brother told him. "After Dad left, you were stuck with me, and you'd feel guilty for leaving me behind. No one to watch my back, you know?"

"No, Dean..." Sam said in warning, though he didn't know what he was warning him against.

"But you still thought about it. You still considered leaving. That's what you really wanted."

"What? No." Sam shook his head frantically, his heartbeat racing. "Dean—"

Dean ripped his gaze from Sam to look out the window, even though closed curtains blocked it from view. "You left once before, Sam. You never even looked back." His voice shook dangerously. "And then Dad, he just...he just disappeared. Twice. Without warning."

He swallowed heavily. "Neither of you ever called," he said flatly. "Neither of you would even pick up your goddamn phone."

Sam looked at him with still-rising fear. "Dean, don't..."

The corner of Dean's lips twitched downward. "Every time I called you, every time I called Dad, I knew I would hear five rings and then your voice mail would answer." His eyes narrowed, squinting. "I never wanted to count to five again."

"Dean," Sam pleaded. "What are you saying?"

He seemed to ignore him. "You and me, we had a huge fight one night, a couple of weeks later," he said. "I thought_, this is it_. This would be the moment that you announced you were leaving again."

Dean looked at him, his head shaking from side to side. "I couldn't live with it, Sam. I _refused_ to go through that again. I never wanted to know that--that you chose Stanford over me. Not again."

Sam didn't understand why it had to be one or the other, didn't understand Dean, didn't _want_ to understand where he was leading.

"Dean, what did you do?" he whispered.

Dean didn't answer right away. "I called this priestess I'd helped out a while ago. And I asked her if she could do a memory spell."

Everything came to an abrupt stop for one still moment. And then Sam cried out in a surge of anger, leaping to his feet as the wave of rage crashed into him. It sent him reeling, left his face burning hot and his chest cold and dark. He thought his heart might leap out of his throat.

"So you made that choice for me," he burst out, furious.

Dean looked at him again, sad but defiant. "I wouldn't have done it if I didn't know you'd be happier."

That did nothing to ease Sam. His eyes burning, hardening, he sat back down on the bed before his knees could buckle. His hands slapped against the mattress edge.

"So _you_ did this? You had my entire memory _erased_?"

"It was the only way you could be free from all of this." Dean crossed his arms over his stomach, clutching each elbow with the opposite hand. "I thought this would be the best way—for both of us."

"Tell me, Dean," Sam demanded dangerously, leaning forward. "Tell me there's more to this. Tell me how you could ever _think_ you were doing the right thing. Tell me why you thought you could just throw away everything that I am."

Dean just shook his head, unable to meet his eye.

If they had been standing, if Dean hadn't already been hurt, Sam would have punched him right then.

He almost did anyway, his arm even twitched from the urge, but he bit down on the insides of his cheeks instead. Inside he was raging. His mind had been violated, his entire life had been played with. He couldn't find the words to explain what Dean had done to him. His past was gone, his whole identity had been changed, just because his brother - now a complete stranger to him – decided it would be good for him.

Disgusted, he turned away, rotating his body 45 degrees so that he faced somewhere else, anywhere other than Dean's stolid face.

He wanted to throw up. He needed to strike something.

"You have no idea what you did to me. You don't know what it's like, not knowing who you are..." He twisted his head around to look at Dean. "You just took the most personal part of me away from me, without even—" His voice caught and he couldn't finish. A long moment of charged silence stretched between them.

Then he did stand up, although not to punch Dean. He stood silent and still, towering over his brother.

"Sammy," Dean pleaded up at him.

Sam felt his emotions shut down, his thoughts becoming a dull roar in his head.

"It's Sam."

Dean flinched, but Sam ignored it. He looked Dean up and down, eyeing the bandages that were wrapped around his arms. "You should lie down," he said tonelessly. "You've lost a lot of blood."

There was water in Dean's eyes. "Sammy, c'mon."

Sam didn't reply, leaving it up to Dean to continue. But Dean said nothing more, just looked at Sam for several long moments before tearing his gaze away. Sam remained standing by his chair, where he waited to assist his brother.

Dean finally looked up at him and sighed. "Okay. But my legs work just fine," he said, and he stood up, pushing himself up by the arms of the chair to prove it. Sam stepped back silently, letting him walk by to get to his bed.

The older brother moved stiffly but steadily. But instead of lying down, he sat himself on the edge of the mattress. He glanced up at Sam. "Do you need to use the bathroom? Brush your teeth or anything?" he asked.

Sam scrunched his eyebrows, taken off guard. "What?"

"You should get that out of the way," Dean continue, pulling out his cell phone. "I'm going to make a call."

Sam's eyes widened with rage. He almost refused, just to spite him, infuriated that after everything, Dean had the nerve to ask for privacy.

But after the day spent in the woods, he really did need to go. So he went, storming into the bathroom and slamming the door behind him.

And afterwards he brushed his teeth because he wasn't ready to go back out yet. Then he splashed water on his face, suddenly realizing just how shaky and unnerved the entire day had left him. He splashed his face again, needing that shock of cold water, just to give him something definite and real to feel. He didn't know how long he was in there, but it didn't feel like long enough.

It wasn't until he came back out that he realized maybe Dean had a different reason for suggesting that he take care of business while he had the chance.

Dean was propped up against the headboard of his bed, his legs stretched out in front of him. One arm crossed his stomach and the other was laying alongside his body, clutching the cell phone. "Everything's been taken care of, Sammy," he said, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall.

Sam looked at him, worried and confused. But he didn't have time to ask before he was hit with a dizzying wave of fatigue.

Suddenly alarmed, he stumbled to his bed, sitting down heavily on top of it. But that wasn't enough, and his eyelids started to pull themselves close despite his struggles to keep them open.

He gave Dean one last, betrayed look before he finally succumbed to his body's demands. He let himself fall completely prone, tumbling bonelessly onto the bedspread. He had just managed to pull his legs up onto the bed when he shut down completely. Everything went black.

* * *

_Yes, it's as many of you feared - maybe even worse. _

_to be continued..._


	24. Chapter 24

_Well, I lied a little. I got a little spooked, so I decided to post the next two chapters tonight instead of tomorrow. _

_Also, the chapter after this turned out longer than I thought it would. I'll post the first half later tonight, once it's ready, and the second half sometime tomorrow._

* * *

When Sam woke up again, he knew a long time had passed. He was jerked into consciousness, as if his mind had been ready and waiting to wake up the very first moment his body would let him. As soon as his eyes opened, he pushed himself upwards until he was sitting up in his bed. 

Memories of the day before rushed back to him at a frightening speed. The heavy revelations, the intensity of emotions—_Dean. _He was with his _brother_. After a year of separation and searching and dazed confusion, he was suddenly faced with a brutal onslaught of answers.

He remembered the past year, how he went through every day missing a large piece of himself. He remembered the past few days of traveling with a man he knew as John. He remembered the strangeness he felt learning about the world of the supernatural, the new thrill he got out of fighting evil and solving mysteries. More strongly, he remembered the overload of emotions as it all came together when he found out that Dean was his brother. When he found out that Dean did this to him.

But—

He remembered that day over a year ago, the one other time a sudden fatigue had overcome him. Even then, though he had no reason to be suspicious, he had known something was wrong when he collapsed on his bed, struggling to keep his eyes open. He had looked at Dean for help, for answers, but Dean only watched him as he drifted away. The last thing Sam saw before he woke up in Rebecca's apartment had been Dean's miserable eyes.

He could remember everything else, too. Everything. His childhood, Dean and their dad, every job and every creature they faced, the pain and determination after Jessica's death…All of it had come back, a scrambled mess of memories that he wouldn't even try to pick apart just yet. But he knew he could when he wanted to, because they were all there in his mind again.

It left his head throbbing.

Sam looked around. The hotel room looked mostly the same, though there was more garbage in the undersized trash cans. He wasn't surprised that Dean would turn down maid service with Sam in an almost coma-like state.

Dean was gone, but Sam wasn't ready to determine if it was for good or not.

The bedside clock read 7:35, but he didn't know whether that was AM or PM. But he suddenly realized he had more pressing matters – his bladder.

After he had finished, opening the bathroom door must have masked the sound of the hotel door which opened at the same time. He wished it hadn't, he wished he had some warning, because when he stepped from the bathroom, he was unprepared to see Dean standing in the doorway leading into their room.

They both froze, staring at each other. "You're up," Dean remarked awkwardly.

"You're back," Sam replied. That broke them from their spell, and they both moved again, stepping deeper into the room, shutting their respective doors behind them.

"Did...did it work?" asked Dean, looking at Sam apprehensively.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I have my memory now," he told him coolly. Dean nodded in return and looked away, clearing his throat. "How long have I been out?" Sam asked him.

"A little over 24 hours."

That would mean it was in the PM. Sam sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Damn." At least it was a shorter sleep this time. Then again, undoing a spell always took a less energy.

"I brought you some burgers," Dean told him, holding up the white sack in his hand. "Figured you might be hungry."

Sam took it from him. There were four sandwiches in the bag, so he handed two back to Dean and then sat down at the desk while Dean dropped onto his bed. Sam didn't think he was hungry, and he only started to eat so he'd have something to do. He didn't know what else to do. But once he chewed and swallowed a mouthful, he realized how starved he really was. He quickly devoured his two burgers, ignoring his brother.

"So now what?" he asked flatly as he wadded up the wrapper of his last burger and tossed it into the trashcan. He meant it as a rhetorical question, one he directed more towards himself.

Dean, who had been sipping a soda, replied anyway. "I, uh-" He cleared his throat, setting the cup down on the bedside table. "I got you a bus ticket back to Stanford."

Sam felt his jaw drop, but he quickly closed it, clenching it shut. He stared at his brother, unable to speak.

In Sam's silence, Dean went on, elaborating. "It leaves at two AM. It was the best I could do." He pulled the ticket from his jacket pocket and tossed it on the desk beside Sam.

Sam stared at the pieces of thin cardboard, reading the words printed across the top. Then he turned back to his brother. "What the _hell_, Dean!" he exploded.

Dean looked back at him with wide, startled eyes. "Things are tough, so you're going to send me away, just like that. Is that it?" Sam asked him acidly.

"I just thought you'd go back to Stanford," Dean said defensively.

"There you go, making decisions for me again!" Sam shot back immediately. "Dammit, Dean."

Dean looked back at him with steely defiance, saying, "I thought that's what you'd want. You know it is."

Sam met his gaze with one of his own. "You should have waited, you jerk. You should have let me decide."

"I'm sorry, all right? I just thought it'd be easier if I got that out of the way--"

"Don't ever make decisions for me again," Sam interrupted, slapping the ticket against the desk for emphasis. "Just because you happen to be right this time, doesn't give you any right to choose for me."

For a very brief moment, Dean couldn't hide the raw emotions from his eyes. But he recovered, slamming walls up so quickly that Sam wondered if he had even seen the crestfallen expression that had passed his face. Sam, though, was too angry and hurt himself to care. What did Dean expect?

"Don't worry," Dean replied. "I won't need to anymore."

Sam snorted derisively. "You got that right," he said, glaring at him. "The spell was lifted, but in the end you still got what you wanted, didn't you? You're getting rid of me."

Dean glared back at him, though it lacked anger.

It was a look Sam knew well, a hardened expression his older brother took on whenever he was uncomfortable with his emotions, or with Sam's. He'd always been so stubborn, always refused to acknowledge whatever he was feeling.

And Sam had long grown tired of trying, and right now, he wasn't the one who owed anybody anything. It pissed him off that Dean wasn't putting any effort. Sam deserved at least that.

If Dean wanted to part ways with Sam without any attempt at apology or reconciliation, then Sam will take that. But he'll be damned if he would ever reach out to Dean after this.

Sam gritted his teeth. After all of this,he couldn't see how he could go back to his "normal" life at Stanford. He couldn't imagine facing Rebecca and Zach, didn't know how he could live the same life he had before he knew about Dean.

But more critically, he knew he could never stay with Dean, not after what he had done to him. His trust was gone.

"Dammit, Dean!" he said again, standing up suddenly. "I can't believe you did this to me!"

Dean didn't reply.

Shaking his head, his eyes trained on the wall, Sam felt heat burn inside his chest. "I can't even _look_ at you," he spat furiously. And if any emotion crossed Dean's face, he wouldn't know it. Didn't care to know.

With a burst of anger, his arm shot out and punched the wall, slamming his fist into wallpaper and plaster. Without looking at the damage he caused, he spun around and stormed out of the door.

It wasn't until he was outside that he noticed the tears that blurred his eyes. He cursed them, refusing to cry.

ooOOoo

Sam stayed away for most of the evening. It was harder than it seemed – the hotel was located just off a major highway, surrounded by places meant for the traveling commuter, not a car-less pedestrian. The choices were made worse by Sam's desire to be alone, and he had trouble finding a place where he could suffer through his emotion freely and privately. The last thing he needed was to break down into tears in the middle of a strange town.

He ended up at the McDonald's. By the time he walked into the brightly lit building, he no longer felt an urge to cry. Instead, all of his emotions had congealed into a lump deep inside his chest where it rolled and burned dully.

He ordered a coffee and took a seat in the far corner, out of sight from the counter in a small wing that held only two other occupied tables. He ignored the other patrons as he slid into the last booth, his hands wrapped around the warm cardboard cup.

Time passed slowly and all he had were his miserable thoughts. He ended up nursing three cups worth of coffee, just so he had something to do with his hands. His thoughts kept repeating over in his head, and he finally forced himself to move on.

His next steps wouldn't be too difficult, he told himself. They were already laid out before him, neat and tidy.

It wasn't be too late to sign up for law school. He could still start in the fall. And this time, he'd be more ambitious than settling for a job at the grocery store. It was also time to start dating again, he realized. Jessica was irreplaceable, but he knew there were other women out there who could make him happy. He needed to stop sulking, he needed to rebuild so he could eventually settle down.

Someday he would have the life he'd always wanted, and he could forget all of this.

At least he knew he had a place to go to until all that happened. But before he could, he had to know.

Sam pulled out his cell phone and stared at it for a long moment. He didn't feel like talking, but he had to find out what they knew, had to find out what exactly they had been keeping from him.

"Hey, Rebecca," he said when she answered.

"Oh hi, Sam!" Rebecca greeted cheerfully on the other side. But then her voice suddenly turned sober when she realized something was wrong. "What's up?" she asked carefully.

Sam answered instantly. "I know John is Dean."

There was a long pause before she responded. "I've been waiting for this call," she admitted softly. "Sam, I'm so, so sorry. Where are you? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Can you...Can you explain everything to me?" he asked. His voice was suddenly shaky. "I don't—I still don't understand what happened."

"Oh, God, Sam. I'll-I'll try," she replied. She took in a deep breath before she continued. "Dean showed up with you unannounced that night, said he'd been driving all day to get here because he didn't know where else to go," she told him through the phone. "He had to carry you in from the car because you were unconscious. He said that you were hit with a voodoo spell."

She paused, and Sam could hear the frown in her voice. "And then he said that when you woke up, you wouldn't remember anything about your family or your past - but you _would_ remember us. He wanted to leave you here so you could go back to school, get on with your life. It'd be too dangerous if you stayed with him."

Dean was a goddamn liar, Sam thought for not the first time.

"And he told us to keep him a secret from you. He didn't want you to know. Said it would be too... complicated." She didn't seem to hear his snort.

Sam shook his head, even though she couldn't see it. "Why couldn't you just tell me?" he asked her.

"He made us promise, Sam. And because..." She hesitated for a moment, but then continued in a rush. "At first I thought he had a point, that it would be easier for you. After that thing in St. Louis, I didn't think you would leave your brother, but I thought this was your chance to have a normal life."

Sam wanted to crush the phone in his hand. It was already digging into his fingers, he clutched it so tight. _A normal life._ He never wanted to hear anyone say those words to him again.

Rebecca continued quickly. "Sam, I would have broken that promise the moment I realized you weren't happy. I swear, I really wanted to."

"But you didn't," he pointed out.

"He was your brother, Sam. I couldn't just get in the way of family like that. I didn't think it was my right to make that decision."

"So you just let him go on lying like that?"

"He's family and I wasn't," she told him, pleading with him to understand. "He should have been the one to tell you, not me."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm so sorry, Sam," he heard her say again. "I know it was a mistake. It took me way too long to realize it." He remembered the frustration she showed at their graduation. He remembered the night she sent him home early from the bar so he could run into Dean. She tried, he realized. She did what she could.

He had to work his throat before he could speak again. "Did he…did he tell you why? How it happened?"

"Not really. But from what I gathered, it sounded like you guys had been on one of your, um, hunts, and I guess it ended badly. Sounded like the voodoo lady had it out for you, or something."

She didn't know. It was a small relief, but it didn't make him any happier. Sam sagged against the hard plastic seat. He almost told her the truth, but couldn't get himself to.

"He kept checking up on you," she told him. "The whole time, he never stopped worrying about you."

_So what_? Sam almost retorted. "Don't, Rebecca," he said instead. _Don't make excuses for him._

"Where are you, Sam?" she asked again.

"Northern Texas," he replied dully. He didn't tell her he was getting on a bus. He didn't tell her that in 24 hours he'd be standing at her doorstep again. He knew he should, but he couldn't admit that out loud.

She was quiet for a moment. "What are you going to do now?" she asked.

"I don't know," Sam replied, scrubbing his face with his hand. "I don't know."

ooOOoo

When he walked back out of the McDonald's restaurant, ready to pick his things up from the motel, he saw the Impala sitting in the parking lot.

Sam thought he would swerve around to avoid it, but his traitorous legs took him there anyway. He needed more, he realized then. He needed more from Dean, and he couldn't stop himself from looking for that.

His brother was sitting behind the wheel, watching him through the windshield as Sam approached. Sam refused to look at him directly as he came up to the passenger side. He yanked the door open and slid inside.

"What are you doing here?" he asked him, keeping his gaze forward.

"Looking for you," Dean replied.

"Well, you found me. Congratulations."

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

"I called Rebecca," Sam told him without really meaning to.

"Oh. Good."

Sam sighed. This was ridiculous. "What do you want, Dean?" he asked tiredly.

"I know I messed up, Sam. I knew it the minute I called Ms. Valerie and asked her to do the spell."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"No. Of course not." Dean scrubbed his hair with his fingers and then dropped the hand onto the steering wheel. "I just…I'm so goddamn sorry, Sam."

Sam looked away. The apology was something, but it wasn't enough.

ooOOoo

Since it was the middle of the night, the bus station was mostly empty. Only two buses were scheduled to pass by the rest of the night, including his. It's too quiet, Sam thought with a frown.

He sat on the cold tiled floor of the station, his back propped against the wall. His bags were spread around him, laying exactly where he dropped them. There were plenty of seats, but he had felt like falling to the floor.

He and Dean had exchanged awkward goodbyes when Dean dropped him off half an hour earlier. They didn't say much on the short drive there. Dean apologized again, but even he realized how inadequate his words sounded.

Dean asked him to call once he got to Stanford, but neither of them expected him to.

Sam drew his legs up and dropped his head onto his knees. He wondered how his life became so messed up.

Dean knew he'd eventually go back to school. He had to have been prepared for that sincethe moment he picked Sam up to search for their dad. There was no reason he had to resort to something so drastic.

Sam groaned miserablyto himself. He didn't see why he should have to feel guilty for wanting what anyone else could have.

Dean and their father were both hunters. But Sam was never satisfied with that. He found contentment at school instead. It gave him what he wanted.

"_What are you going to do now?" Sam asked despite himself as he grabbed his bag from the back of the car. _

_Dean gave him an ironic half-smile. "There're reports of a doppelganger or shapeshifter near Tulsa," he said. Sam almost laughed at that._

Some things never changed. Dean was one of those things – although apparently he still managed to find ways to surprise him. After all, Sam never thought he'd ever betray him like that.

How did Dean get so messed up?

Sam rolled his head backwards and let his eyes slide close. His head hurt, and so did his stomach. Everything hurt.

Dean's words from the other night echoed in his head.

"…_He left again. He didn't say where he was going, just that he needed to get away, needed some time to himself. To_ reflect."

"_Sam…You had nothing left in you. You were miserable and depressed and...that fire was gone. You just...Your heart wasn't in it."_

And then Sam remembered why.


	25. Chapter 25

_Here's the first of two flashback chapters. Thank you all for sticking with me so far! _

_A reminder: I plotted this story out before the new episodes that started in January. I almost didn't post this entire story because of that. Anyway, just keep in mind there's no Meg or anything of the sort. In fact, most if not all of the events in the episodes following _Asylum_ never happened - especially the ones in _Shadows.

* * *

Their dad called them on a Wednesday, just after Sam and Dean had staked an entire nest of vampires outside of Phoenix. They had just gotten back to the hotel and were still covered in dust when Dean's cell phone rang. 

Even before Dean looked at the caller ID, they both knew it was important. It was nearly four in the morning and they knew no one who would call unless it was urgent. Sam had a brief flash of hope that it was their father, but he didn't actually expect to hear Dean gasp "Dad?"

Three minutes later, Dean hung up and announced they had to leave. "Right now," he said. Sam knew at once that this was it, this was the moment they'd been waiting for. He immediately got up and started packing, letting Dean explain as they stuffed clothes and weapons into their bags.

Their dad needed them. Sam didn't think he would ever hear those words either. But he had told Dean he needed their help as soon as possible, and he gave him coordinates for somewhere in central California. It was only a twelve-hour drive – close-by when the entire country was your home.

John had cornered the demon. He had finally found the monster responsible for the deaths of Mary and Jessica. And he needed their help to defeat it.

"We're finally going to kill this thing," Dean said, quoting their father.

Sam could feel it in his bones, could taste it in his mouth. The need for justice or revenge or blood – he would finally get that satisfaction. He could finally rid himself of those thoughts, those black desires that had always lurked just under his chest since the moment Jessica died.

The weariness he felt just after their latest hunt disappeared instantly, and he stood by the door, tapping his foot while he waited for his brother.

But Dean stalled. Like always, he followed their father's orders - but he wanted to shower first, and he refused to leave before both he and Sam were clean. Sam relented before they could waste more time arguing than it would take to shower. When it was his turn, he impatiently jumped under the spray of water and waited only until the vampire dust had been rinsed off before he got back out.

Fortunately, Dean had already packed the car and was ready to go; otherwise Sam might have accidentally killed him with his impatience.

Dean did feel the urgency as well, even if it wasn't to the same extent as Sam and their father felt. He broke his own speed record along a desert highway, and they cut several hours from their driving time. They didn't speak more than a few words the whole time. Or, if they did, Sam didn't remember it.

They met their dad mid-afternoon. When they walked up the his hotel door, Dean froze for a moment and Sam thought he wasn't going to knock for some strange reason. But then his hand came up and gave the door three simple raps.

It was the first time Sam had seen his father since he had left for Stanford. It was a simple reunion, with a few tears and quick but firm hug. They mentioned neither their last fight, nor John's prolonged, mysterious absence.

They had something more important on their mind.

Since the demon was a night creature, they spent the next few hours researching - but it was more out of routine than anything. Spread out in John's hotel room, they glanced through library materials, John's notes, rumors and legends online. But the moment the sun set, they quit at once, slamming their books shut and exchanging them for supplies and swords.

By then, they knew how to kill it. That was all they needed.

The demon had taken hold of a two-story home just outside of town. John had the family safely evacuated the night before, so the house was clear for them to use. It was a regular place, like their home had been in Kansas. Sam was grateful John had arrived just in time to get the Johnsons to safety before the demon could attack.

Their plan was fairly straightforward. First they would trap the demon within the house, preventing it from escaping. Then they needed to confine it to its human form, rendering it mortal.

At that point, it could be killed with first a slash across its middle – the same mark it left on its victims – and then a stab straight through its heart.

Sam and John were bloodthirsty and impatient, and they wasted no time entering the house, the setting for this final battle. The demon had taken from them the women they loved more than anything else, and they still felt that pain. They needed this battle, they needed this kill. They'd been waiting for this for too long.

So they had Dean do the spell casting, even though out of the three, he had the least experience. Dean never protested. He lived with them for too long, he knew as much as they did how deeply they needed this.

They set him up in the basement on the cold, concrete floor. John poured a circle of salt around him, and Sam gave him the Latin words he had copied onto notebook paper. Then John lit the candle sitting to his left, and Sam the one on his right. Dean sat cross-legged in the middle, studying the spell because his father told him to.

First he would reinforce the temporary binding spell John had placed the night before. Then, once he was sure the demon was trapped within the walls of the house, Dean would move onto the next spell, the one that made it mortal. As soon as the demon took on its human form, John and Sam would be ready to attack.

The demon had been on the second floor when John placed the binding spell the night before, and that's where they expected it to remain. Sam and John were determined to be present the moment it became mortal. Even as a human it was powerful, and they knew surprising it would be best. Besides, they weren't sure how long Dean could force it into its human shape.

So they left Dean there in the basement. He was safe; the salt circle would protect him from the demon and a sword from its human version. The demon was two floors away in any case, and it was accepted that Sam and John had the more dangerous job.

When the oldest and youngest Winchester gripped their medieval swords and left the basement and Dean behind, they were eager to kill this bastard once and for all. They were anxious but confident. Ready. They knew its weak spot.

But what they didn't know was that the demon drew its power from fire. They didn't know that even the flames from the two small ritual candles were bright enough to attract it. They didn't know that those lit candles would give it enough strength to pass through a simple salt barrier.

Sam and his father roamed the entire second floor, searching it room by room with their swords poised and ready. They paced the hallway, throwing open doors and checking each room as they passed. The whole time, they kept each other in sight. Watched each other's back.

But fifteen minutes passed, and they knew the spell should have been completed. The demon should have been human by then, should have been plainly visible.

They went to the first floor next as their concern started to mount When they didn't see it after one sweep through, their heartbeats started to rise. They exchanged alarmed glances and raced through the twisting rooms.

But the demon wasn't there.

Instantly they were running for the basement door. Sam was younger, quicker, and he got there first. He raced down the stairs, nearly tripping. He distantly heard his father thundering behind him.

His eyes went immediately to the makeshift spell circle, where Dean should have been sitting. To his horror, the candles had been knocked over, although somehow their flames were still flickering. The circle of salt was now a burnt ring scorched into the concrete.

And Dean was gone.

Sam crept forward in horror, his heart hammering in his ears. He stepped over the burnt salt, going into the area where Dean was supposed to perform the ritual. A flash of white caught his eye, and he looked down at the notebook paper that lay still on the ground by his feet.

And then a spot of blood appeared on the top of his shoe.

Another followed, dripping right beside it. Two drops of red on his gray sneaker.

In horrified unison, Sam and John lifted their gazes, tilting their heads back. Sam heard his father cry out, but his own throat closed up completely. He thought he might be sick, if he didn't choke to death.

Dean was spread out above them, pinned flat againstthe ceiling. A bloody gash had been torn across his abdomen.

The horrible image of Jessica flashed through Sam's mind, just as he knew his father had a flashback of Mary. But this time it was Dean who hung over them, his eyes wide open with pain and horror. He was already pale, the color of death.

But he was still alive, Sam realized incredibly. His lips were moving, although Sam couldn't hear what he was saying. It gave him a fragile, frightening sense of almost-hope as he stared up at his brother in stunned horror.

Sam stretched his arms up, but his hands only came within a foot of him. Tears blurred his eyes as he struggled to reach.

Then Dean stopped talking, his lips suddenly stilling. And then the air rushed by Sam, seemed to surge past him. Energy, he realized distantly, dropping his gaze.

And then suddenly a dark form loomed before him. Even though it looked normal, like someone he could have passed on the street, Sam knew immediately it was the demon. He knew this was the thing they had devoted their entire lives to finding.

Dean had finished the spell.

Sam instantly came alive, his blood racing. With a scream, he lurched forward, swinging the sword he still held in his hands. He brought it behind him and then lashed out in a wide, powerful arc.

The tip of the sword slashed across the figure's middle, slicing through flesh. The demon stumbled backwards from the force of his blow as blood welled from his stomach.

Sam stepped back automatically as John rushed forward, almost as if they had practiced it. He watched as his father ran his sword through the demon's chest and then yanked it back out.

The demon let out an inhuman shriek before it toppled down to the ground. They examined it just long enough to make sure its body lay limp, unmoving before them.

They had killed it.

The demon that killed his mother, that took Jessica from him, was gone. They finally ended it. They finally got their revenge.

But Sam wasn't thinking about that.

He looked up with a jerk, just in time to see Dean suddenly fall from the ceiling as he was released from whatever power that held him. Crying out, Sam tossed his sword aside and leapt forward. He got there in time to break his fall, and the force of Dean's body knocked him down to the concrete floor.

Sam lay there on his back, stunned, trying to catch his breath as Dean lay on top of him. The weight of his brother pressed heavily against Sam's chest, and his head hung limply over his shoulder.

Gasping, Sam struggled to pull his trapped arms from underneath him, finally yanking them out with a gentle jerk. Once they were free, he lifted them up into the air and carefully lowered them onto Dean's back. Then he wrapped them firmly around his brother's body, his hands grasping each side of Dean's ribage.

He hugged his brother tightly to him, ignoring the tears that leaked from his eyes and rolled off the side of his face.

"Dean," he whispered. "Dean."

Somewhere beside him, their father was frantic, speaking in a broken string of words. "Oh, God, Dean. Oh, God, no. My boy. I'm sorry, Dean, I'm so sorry," he was saying. And then strangely he started barking orders—into his phone, Sam dimly realized; he was calling for help.

Sam hung onto Dean desperately, trying to keep him anchored to him. Forcing him to know that Sam was there.

But Dean didn't move, didn't acknowledge him in the slightest. The weight on his chest never moved. Sam's arms were cold, and the warmth of Dean's body were his only comfort. As long as Dean stayed warm, he would be fine. Sam started rubbing his back, desperately keeping that warmth inside him.

And then John's arms were carefully wrapping themselves around Dean, just under Sam's grip. "C'mon, Sam," he said softly, his voice deep and shaky. "We have to go."

"What?" Sam fumbled. "But—help—"

"We can't stay here," John told him. "We gotta go. They'll meet us at the curb." As he spoke, he tugged gently at the weight holding Sam down.

Sam held on tighter. "No, Dad, wait. Don't--" he said frantically, shaking his head.

"Listen to me, Sam!" his father snapped before lowering his voice. "We'll meet them outside. It'll be quicker." Sam barely heard him, and his head refused to stop shaking. "Sam!"

Then Sam let go. He dragged in a hitching breath, an almost sob, as his arms dropped to the sides.

Dean was lifted from him, but Sam's eyes were closed and he didn't watch. Once the weight was off of him, Sam rolled over and pushed himself up.

"Get the swords," John ordered, and Sam obeyed robotically. He picked them up from the ground, barely noticing the blades slick with blood and ignoring the body on the ground. He held one in each hand and followed behind his father as he carried Dean up the stairs in his arms.

Moving on autopilot, he held the door open as John took Dean outside. Then he threw the swords into the trunk of the Impala while John carefully lay Dean on the grass next to the road. Sam dropped to his knees beside him. His father's hands were pressed against Dean's wound, but Sam couldn't tell if it did any good. Everything was so bloody.

While they waited, he tried to ignore the deathly pallor of Dean's face. He focused instead on the rise and fall of his chest, the only thing that assured him his brother was still alive.

At one point, Dean's eyes drifted open, rolling around as he searched for a face. They landed on Sam. "'Ey," he greeted, his voice hoarse. "Did you get 'im?"

Beside him, John let out a harsh noise that sounded almost like a sob. "Yeah, son. We got him."

Sam thought he saw the corner of his mouth twist into a smile. "Hell, yeah," he said before his eyes slipped close again.

Sam didn't know how long it took the ambulance to arrive. He never heard what lie his father told them. He climbed numbly behind the wheel of Dean's car so he could follow his father's truck to the hospital.

The hospital should have been closer, he thought with each turn they took. It was too far away.

Sometime later he found himself in the waiting room with his father. They sat side by side in the plastic chairs, neither of them speaking as the doctors were off somewhere working on Dean. Sam stared at the doors where he expected news to eventually come from. His dad was a pale and silent form beside him, his gaze never leaving the tiled floor. Both of them were covered in blood.

Sam could not stop the flood of thoughts that pounded him. He didn't even try.

They should have waited. God dammit, they should have waited, and they should have put more effort in studying the demon. But they were too impatient, too high on finally putting an end to the shadow that had haunted their entire lives. They went in recklessly and dangerously unprepared. And Dean was the one who suffered for their mistakes.

They got what they wanted, but it wasn't worth it.

ooOOoo

Some time later—Sam hadn't been keeping track how long—the doctor came up to them. He told them that Dean had finally been stabilized. That if he lived through the next 24 hours, his chances were good.

Sam let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

He lost that breath again when they were allowed in to see him. Dean was dead, Sam was sure of it. Only his heart monitor told him otherwise.

As soon as they were alone, John started cursing, coming alive for the first time since they arrived at the hospital. He raged around the room, spitting out four-letter words, his voice low but violent. Sam stood stiffly beside Dean's bed as he let his father finally release the emotions that had been boiling inside him.

"God dammit, Sam," John hissed under his breath, slapping his hand around the railing of the bed. "I messed up. God _dammit, _I messed up."

Sam nodded, watching Dean's face for any sign of movement. "We both did," he said roughly.

"Stop it, Sam. This was my responsibility," his father told him firmly, passionately. "This was my fault. I almost got my own son killed."

Tears started to prick Sam's eyes, but they never fell. A tense quiet settled over them, and each beep of Dean's monitors sent a subtle jolt through Sam's chest.

"I can't take this," John suddenly muttered, sounding angry. "I can't stand this right now."

Sam looked up with growing alarm. He didn't like the tone in his voice. "Dad?"

John straightened suddenly and turned to him. "Sam. You got to get him out of here."

Sam took a step backwards, gasping out loud. The abrupt turn in the conversation threw him off guard. "What do you mean?" he cried, his eyes growing wide.

"We all have to get out of here," his father told him. "We left a body behind with a matching injury. It's only a matter of time before they link us to it."

"But, Dad—Look at him!" He waved an arm at Dean.

John refused, stubbornly keeping his eyes trained on Sam's face. "Sam, listen. He'll be fine." Sam glared at him, wide-eyed, his teeth grinding together.

"You'll take care of him," John added.

Speechless, Sam struggled to form words. "What do you mean—Why can't--" he immediately protested, feeling everything spin out of control. "Why me?" he demanded. "Where are _you_ going?"

"I—I need some time. I need to get my thoughts together."

"But what about me? What about _Dean_!" Sam shouted at him.

His father was sad. "You guys always needed each other more than you needed me."

"That's not true, Dad," Sam shot back instantly, even though it was. But he didn't want his father to leave him. Not again, not like this. He and Dean had been searching too long for him. "We still need you," he added truthfully. John looked away, uncompromising.

Dean would be crushed.

"You _can't _leave," Sam said, his voice suddenly hard. "Dad, listen to me. You can't do this to us."

"Sam, everything's going to be okay. We'll see each other again."

"Dad, no, why can't you stay _now_?"

"I just can't, Sammy," he replied, his voice suddenly trembling. "I need some time…to reflect."

"The hell, Dad!" Sam exclaimed, barely able to see his father through the water in his eyes. He was shaking, he realized, and he had to grip the bed rail to steady himself. "Don't leave me, Dad. Don't leave Dean."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"What kind of father are you!" Sam spat out, hoping his words hurt, hoping they stung deep.

"I know, Sam…" he whispered in defeat. "But I can't protect you two anymore. I failed. And I'm afraid…" his voice caught, and he trailed off for a long moment. Sam stood there trembling as he waited for his father to explain. "It's too dangerous to be around me. I've made too many enemies, and--I've already put you through too much. For all of your life, I've been placing you two in danger."

Sam shook his head in disbelief, not disagreeing, but too angry at his father to do anything else.

"Get him out of here, Sam. Get him somewhere safe."

Sam blinked furiously and looked down, refusing to acknowledge his father's words.

"You boys need to move on," John told him sadly. "It's over now."

Sam gripped the metal railing tight in his hands, his locked arms trembling from the force. His eyes were so filled with tears he didn't see his father as he walked out of the hospital room, leaving the two brothers behind.

* * *

_to be continued..._

_Gah, I know. As a fanfic writer, I tend to make things way more angsty than they would be on the show. I'm a glutton for that kind of stuff. And it just occurred to me how much of a whumping Dean's taking in this fic. Oh, yeesh...Hope you all can forgive me!_


	26. Chapter 26

_I am so sorry for the delay! I know I promised this almost two weeks ago (yikes), but I kinda hit a snack-sized bit of panic about my story then. But I still have enough wonderful readers that I'm gladly posting this next chapter. __Unfortunately, even after that little crisis, a series of unrelated events kept me from my story until just recently._

_This chapter kinda exploded on me. I'm going to post it anyway, even though I know I'll regret not revising (tightening) it. Hope no one's forgotten my story, because it'd be a heck of a long fic to review!_

_This fic should've been beta'ed, but it isn't. All errors, typos, grammar mistakes, interpretations, and misinformation are mine._

_Also, I changed the summary. So if you're someone who came in to read the "good parts", you might want to start at the very end of Chapter 20 and see how far you get._

* * *

Sam waited until the nurse came in to check up on his brother. She checked his vitals, gave Sam a reassuring smile, and then left. 

Sam, his insides swimming, slowly went up to the bed. He studied his brother for a long moment before he finally forced himself to reach down. For a second his trembling hand hovered over Dean's shoulder. Then he dropped it and gave Dean a gentle shake.

"Dean," he said softly, hating himself. "Hey, Dean."

Dean slowly came awake, and Sam watched his expressions changed as he struggled with consciousness. "Sam?" he asked, his eyebrows drawn together.

"Hey, Dean," Sam replied, swallowing. "How are you feeling?"

He groaned, his face twisting. "Like crap," he replied hoarsely.

Sam nodded just to stall, unable to stand the weakness he heard in his voice. "Dad…Dad thinks we should leave."

It took a moment for his words to sink in, and he hoped they would be dismissed. But then Dean's eyes widened. "We left a body, didn't we?" Immediately he started to move, struggling to push himself up.

"Dean, do you really think…" Sam said hesitantly, thinking he should stop him from moving.

Dean cut him off sharply. "Sam, just help me get out of here," he replied in between pants.

"You can barely move," argued Sam, this time more confidently, as he watched his brother grimace in pain. "You'll rip something open," he warned, feeling sick.

"I'll be fine," Dean grumbled.

Sam gave up watching him struggle, knowing he wouldn't stop even with all the pain. He slid an arm behind him, and Dean didn't protest as he helped him sit up.

As Dean sucked in air from his new position, Sam surveyed him critically. "So, what--you're planning on walking—_stumbling_—out of here, just like that? In your hospital gown?"

Dean paused at that, and Sam had a brief flash of hope. "You're right," he admitted. "Is the car here? Go grab me some clothes."

"Dean!"

Dean cocked his head, unperturbed. "Get some for yourself, too. You look pretty scary, dude."

Sam almost refused, but somehow he found himself walking through the parking lot to the car and pulling out a change of clothes from their bags. It was the middle of the night, and he was alone rummaging through the Impala by the light from an overhead street lamp.

While he was there, he quickly pulled off his own shirt and replaced it with clean sweatshirt. He wanted to get Dean's blood off of him.

Once he was back in the room, he helped Dean into the button-down shirt and sweatpants. "They don't match," Dean complained, but Sam ignored him.

It was Dean who pulled the IVs out of his arm. Sam couldn't get himself to do it, but Dean didn't even hesitate. "You know how to turn off the monitor," Dean said, and Sam nodded, doing just that with a heavy feeling in his stomach.

"All right, let's get out of here," Dean announced. He pivoted, swinging his legs off the bed. Then he seemed to steel himself, and Sam didn't want to watch the look of pain he knew would pass over his face.

Sam stood beside him, wrapping an arm around his back. His brother didn't shrug him off, much to his worry and relief. He helped him stand, and Dean's knees buckled instantly.

But he quickly recovered, and Sam had to guide him to the door even as he was thinking he should push him back into the bed. Dean told him to check to see if the coast was clear. At that moment, no one was in sight, although the nurses' station stood only a few feet away.

Dean shook Sam off of him then, and Sam looked at him in alarm. "I can't look like a patient," Dean told him, rolling his eyes.

And then they slipped out of the room, stepping softly so their shoes didn't squeak against the tile. Dean refused help, but Sam made sure he stood next to him only inches away, just in case. Neither of them risked a glance at the nurses' desk as they passed.

Somehow they made it outside. Instantly Sam's arm went around Dean's back again and he walked him to the car. Dean looked even more pale underneath the lights of the parking lot, and his face was dotted with sweat by the time Sam helped him into the passenger side. "We can go back," Sam suggested, feeling helpless.

Dean shook his head and rested his head back against the seat. He was unconscious by the time Sam pulled out from the parking lot.

ooOOoo

Sam checked into a hotel fifteen miles away, the first he found outside of town. Dean was half-conscious as Sam half-supported, half-carried him into the room, but he was out again the moment his body was stretched out across the bed.

And while Dean slept, Sam paced the room, unable to ignore the fear that had been coursing through his veins since the moment he raced into the basement.

Eventually exhaustion overcame him and he crawled into the second bed. He hadn't slept since two nights ago, he realized. The night before their father had called after their vampire hunt, before they could get to sleep, and they'd been up ever since.

He slept fitfully, but still it was late morning before he woke. Dean remained asleep.

Sam tried to call their dad, but he got his voice mail instead.

Dean was pale, still in the bed next to him, and Sam was angry. Vibrating. The hotel room was too small, the television programming too maddening, the laptop too useless. And he could almost understand why John left. But only almost.

Dean woke up sometime mid-afternoon. Sam noticed the moment he rolled his head to the side and cracked an eyelid open. "Aw, goddammit," his brother hissed under his breath.

Sam helped him sit up and handed him two painkillers from Dean's emergency stash. It wasn't as good as the stuff they would've given him at the hospital, but Sam didn't want his thoughts to go down that path again. Dean gratefully took them from him, as well as the glass of water Sam had kept by his bedside.

"Where's Dad?" Dean asked after he swallowed the water.

Sam froze.

"Is he going to meet us here?" Dean went on.

Sam's heart sank, becoming a heavy weight in his chest. He knew he would ask, but he hadn't expected it so quickly. So…instantly.

"No," he told him.

Even though he didn't want to see the emotions he knew would strike Dean then, he watched his older brother carefully anyway.

But Dean only lifted his chin slightly. "Oh." A hand slowly came up to scratch the bandages surrounding his middle. "So…Where'd he go?"

"Um…" Sam stalled. He knew how weak the words would sound, but the only explanation he had was the one John gave him. "He--He said he needed some time. He just needs…to reflect."

His brother swallowed hard, but his face remained impassive. Sam noticed how he wasn't letting him see his eyes. Then he dropped his head and looked down at his lap. Sam didn't know what to say, so he remained quiet.

"Heh," Dean said after a moment, giving a small snort. He looked back up again, glancing at Sam. "Big tough guy needs to meditate. Our father's gone soft, Sammy."

Sam wanted to call him on his bullshit. But he didn't. Neither of them had the energy for it. "Yeah," he replied half-heartedly. "I guess he did."

ooOOoo

Dean slept through the rest of the day and most of the next, only stirring to stumble into the bathroom or to throw a couple of pills into his mouth. Neither of the brothers said much to each other during those brief moments. Sam still didn't know what to say, and Dean didn't look like he wanted to talk.

The rest of the time, while Dean was unconscious, Sam was left with only himself for company. It wasn't long before he was certain he'd go completely crazy. There was never anything interesting on the hotel's limited TV channels and his laptop gave him little to do since they no longer had any hunt to research. Even though he wasn't hungry, he ordered food just to have something to do - but two days and five meals later, he was sick of pizza and Chinese.

The constant anger that had been keeping him company refused to leave him. It made his veins hum and his temples throb. He found himself standing up and pacing more often than not because his limbs refused to stop moving. He was so angry, but he had nowhere to vent.

The demon that had destroyed their lives was gone now. Just like that. At one point during the day, Sam took a couple of swings through the air with an imaginary sword, trying to remember the feel of the demon's flesh giving way underneath the blade.

He'd been in the hotel room for 48 hours straight when he finally decided he needed to get out. It was five in the morning, but he had gone to bed early the night before just because he couldn't stand the sight of the flickering television screen.

Dean was still asleep on the other bed and hadn't moved even after Sam took a shower. Sam checked him to make sure he was all right, immensely grateful for the sound of small breaths that filled the room. Once he was satisfied that Dean would be fine, Sam grabbed his wallet and headed out of the door.

It was impossible to not worry, so Sam wasn't gone for very long. He bypassed Dean's car, instead heading down the street on foot. He decided he would walk to the convenience store located just a few buildings over, figuring it would be one of the few places open.

It was a quiet morning, and the early sunlight softened the edges of the neglected neighborhood and bathed everything in a orange glow. The fresh, circulating air energized him after the stale air that filled in their room, and he took in deep lungfuls, unsure of when he'd get to breathe it again. The breeze seemed to wipe the thoughts clear from his mind, and Sam gratefully let them go.

Even though the road had no sidewalks, there was very little traffic, and he had no problems reaching the store. He walked through every aisle, even though he only planned on buying breakfast. Then he filled two cups of coffee and grabbed a couple of wrapped breakfast sandwiches, a bottle of orange juice, and some donuts. He also found a microwavable container of soup, which he had to heat up in the store's microwave since their room didn't have one. He didn't know when or what Dean would be able to eat, but the moment he was ready, Sam wanted to make sure he had something to put in his stomach.

As an afterthought, he grabbed a couple of magazines and paperback books without even looking at the covers. He needed _something_ to do in the hotel room, and reading was as good as anything else.

Even with the unnecessary aisle time, the entire visit only took him ten minutes. With a coffee cup in each hand, the soup balancing on the top of one, and the bag of food and reading material hanging off his fingers, Sam strolled carefully back to the motel. Each step that brought him closer sent another thought flying back into his mind, taking the same spot it had been lingering in for the past two days.

He thought about their father, he thought about his own stupidity and mistakes, he thought about Dean stretched out on the bed with his pale face and sunken eyes. He thought about the demon that needed to die, and the satisfaction he should have felt. If only circumstances had been different, if only their obsession hadn't nearly gotten Dean killed.

All of these thoughts were over two days old, but Sam knew they would plague him for the rest of his life.

As the door to room 127 loomed before him, he found himself reluctant to go back to their new reality. He wondered if Dean had stirred yet, or if he still looked too much like a corpse.

But as he walked through the door, he found Dean sitting up in bed, yellowish under the light of the bedside lamp. His face was pale, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, but his eyes were alert, and they flicked over to Sam as he nudged the door close behind him.

Sam set his purchases on the desk, wishing he didn't suddenly feel bad for leaving. "Hey, I just went out for a moment," he found himself rushing to explain. "Just needed to stretch my legs, decided to pick up some breakfast."

"Yeah, I know."

That struck Sam as an odd statement, and Dean's tone sounded strange to him. "You know?" Sam repeated, bewildered. He hadn't told him what he was doing, hadn't even left a note.

"I mean, I knew you had a reason to be gone."

Sam wanted to curse, but he kept it to himself. "Yeah, I did," he said instead, pulling the food from the bag as he avoided Dean's gaze. "Do you think you can handle a sandwich?" he asked him. "I also heated up some soup. It might be lukewarm by now, but…"

"I'll take both," Dean replied. "I'm starving."

"I bet," Sam remarked, handing him the sandwich and bottle of orange juice. He also set coffee and the soup on the bedside table next to him. "How are you feeling?"

Dean shrugged. "Fine, as long as the painkillers kick in."

Sam wanted to ask more, but in all the years he'd spent with his brother, he still hadn't figured out how to get him to open up. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about?" he asked. "Anything you need to say?"

"Like what?"

Sam sighed. He hadn't expected anything more. "Is there anything _you_ need to talk about?" Dean asked him pointedly. Sam frowned and shook his head.

"No," he replied resignedly.

They ate in relative silence, and Sam decided to focus on the food. The sandwich was just as bland as he suspected it would be, but it filled his stomach and gave him something to do. He glanced over at Dean, looking to see if the food was making him nauseous. His sandwich lay abandoned on its wrapper, but he was relieved it looked at least halfway eaten, and that Dean was now drinking the soup. With any luck, all of it would stay down.

Once they were finished, as Sam gathered their trash, he opened his mouth to ask Dean something. But he lost his nerve and closed it again. There wasn't any rush; he could ask later.

Dean noticed though. "Yeah?" he asked.

Sam hesitated. Then he shifted uncomfortably, giving Dean a helpless, apologetic look. It wasn't his original intention, but it was necessary. "I should change your bandages," he told him, trying to keep the nervousness from his voice.

He'd done it before, but this would be the first time Dean would be awake for it. The first time he'd have to do it under unforgiving daylight instead of in the soft glow from the bathroom.

Dean grumbled a token protest, but Sam knew he understood how important it was to keep infection away. After washing his hands, Sam took out their supplies and sat on the bed next to his brother. Dean turned around obligingly and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the white bandages underneath.

As Sam unwrapped the gauze, he tried to steel himself for the sight of Dean's injury. But as he peeled the last of the bandages away, his breath still caught in his throat.

The wound, the slash the demon had sliced across his middle, was red and ugly and…huge.

The image of Dean on the ceiling flashed unyielding through his mind. The wide eyes, the pale skin, the gaping wound that seemed to have swallowed his entire abdomen. That gaping wound, the one that would forever haunt his mind, superimposed itself over the stitched cut Sam was now staring at. As hard as he tried, he couldn't blink that image away.

"How are you not dead?" he whispered under his breath.

He hadn't meant to say that out loud, and he heard the words come from his mouth the same instant Dean did.

It sent them both into an uncomfortable silence. After a moment, Dean finally shrugged in response. "Guess my family has good instincts. You guys got there just in time, didn't you."

_Just in time?_ Sam thought bitterly. Just in time would have been right before the demon slashed Dean across the stomach and pinned him to the ceiling. There never should have been a "just in time." They should have researched more, should have known the demon's strengths as well as they knew its weaknesses so just-in-times never would've happened.

Sam wondered if Jessica had been still alive that moment he saw her pinned. He wondered if she had died instantly, or if she was forced to stare down at the bed as her life slowly leaked out of her. He wondered how long she had been up there, and if a just-in-time could have been possible.

He wondered how close he had come to seeing Dean swallowed by the same flames that took Jessica.

"And, I don't know, maybe Miss Valerie helped."

When Dean spoke, his words brought Sam from his thoughts. He tore his gaze from Dean's abdomen, suddenly realizing he'd been quiet for too long, and he recognized Dean's awkward attempt at filling the silence.

His statement, though, made no sense to him. "Who's Miss Valerie?" he asked. The change in conversation spurred him into action, and as he spoke, he started to work on redressing Dean's wound.

Dean shrugged lightly. "She's a voodoo priestess I helped out once, right before I came and took you from Stanford." Sam nodded once, remembering that Dean had mentioned something about New Orleans that night.

Dean flinched as Sam applied an antibiotic ointment, but he went on as if nothing had happened. "Anyway, she placed some kind of protection spell around me. It's not foolproof or anything, more like a buffer. But who knows, maybe that was enough to make a difference."

Sam looked up from his task, cocking an eyebrow. "You let her put a spell on you?" He never thought Dean would've believed in that kind of thing, let alone risk it.

"Yeah, I trust her. She's a good person, knew what she was doing." He smirked. "I had her place one on you, too, you know."

Sam gaped at him. "What? When?"

"After the whole Bloody Mary thing. Stole a couple of your hairs from the bathroom, sent it to her." He saw Sam's expression. "Hey, it's just a simple spell, no big deal."

Sam snorted. "You could have at least told me."

"It didn't seem worth mentioning. I don't know how effective it is, or if it even works." He shrugged again. "And besides, I felt kinda stupid stuffing hair into an envelope and sending it to some chick in New Orleans."

"But you did anyway."

"Hey, it was worth a shot," he replied, pressing his lips together in a sardonic way.

The image of Dean hanging above him flashed through Sam's mind again, and Sam found himself nodding in agreement. They needed all the help they could get. They've escaped death too many times.

ooOOoo

The next several days passed by dully, especially compared to their usual lifestyle. The hotel room, like many before it, became their temporary home as Dean slowly recovered.

He could move on his own, but only barely, and he preferred to stay wherever he ended up, usually at some position in his bed. A few times, for example, he moved to the end of his bed to watch TV, and when sitting up without support grew to be too much for him, he'd let himself fall backwards, merely twisting his head around so he could still see the screen.

Sam refused to leave him alone, remaining inside in the room the entire time. He wasn't exactly sure why. Even Dean tried to convince him to get some fresh air, but he didn't want to leave. He was afraid of the cheerful sun and fresh air that lay outside their room. The temptation was too great.

Just as he had before, Sam changed the bandages on Dean's wound regularly, checking carefully for signs of infection.

But each time, Dean caught him staring a little too long at the long, thick gash, found Sam's stressed expression to be a little too disturbing, and within a couple of days he insisted on changing them himself. Sam tried to change his mind, told him it was easier if he just let him do it, but Dean disagreed with his usual stubbornness and refused to be convinced otherwise. He also stopped changing in front of him, Sam realized after a while.

Even with Dean as company, Sam still found himself slowly drifting towards insanity. He knew his pacing made Dean nervous and irritated, but he couldn't stop the blood from racing through his veins. When he couldn't stand it anymore, he tried to distract himself with the books and magazines he bought, and it worked, but only for short periods of time.

He went on his laptop whenever he could think of a way to kill time with it. The very first thing he did was look for a way to replace their dwindling supply of painkillers. After some searching, he found an online website that offered drugs without a prescription, and he ordered a refill with express delivery. He wouldn't have been surprised if it turned out to be a scam to get his credit card number, but they never paid their bills anyway. Fortunately, three days later the mailman arrived with a special delivery.

Just as Sam turned from the door, package in hand, he found Dean pressing his cell phone against his ear. Startled, Sam set the small box on the desk, but in his distraction he set it too close to the edge and it toppled to the carpeted floor.

Dean's voice filled the room in a sudden rush. "Hey, Dad, it's Dean. Just wanted to let you know I'm all right, and so's Sam."

Sam frowned as he picked the package from the floor.

"Um, where are you? Sam mentioned you needed some time, but…I'd really like to hear from you--you know, make sure everything's okay. So just…give me a call or whatever." He hesitated for a second before he slid the phone from his ear and snapped it shut.

Sam was watching him, but Dean didn't seem to notice.

"Hey, uh," Sam coughed awkwardly. He didn't like the emotionless look Dean was wearing. "I got you some goodies," he said, shaking the package in the air. "Painkillers."

"Oh, Sam," Dean replied, turning his head to look at him. Sam was relieved to see a smile start to form. "You really are my hero."

ooOOoo

Sam finally asked later that day. He figured it was time.

"Hey, Dean," he started. "You remember Rebecca?"

Dean looked at him with mild surprise. "Yeah, of course I remember Little Becky."

Sam raised an eyebrow, surprised he remembered that. Dean paid more attention than Sam would have thought, even to as small of a thing as a nickname. Apparently that was important enough to Dean in one way or another.

Sam took in a deep breath, steeling himself. "I was thinking maybe we could crash with her for a while," he said, keeping his voice casual and light.

Dean shook his head, openly confused. "Why would we do that?"

"She and Zach just moved back to Stanford, into this new, huge apartment," Sam explained. "They have an extra bedroom, and they offered it to me. To us. It'd be the perfect place for you to recuperate."

Irritation immediately flashed in Dean's eyes. "You were talking about us?" he said angrily. "So she thinks I'm some kind of invalid now?"

"_No_," Sam replied, exasperated. "This was a couple of weeks ago. She wanted to give me her new address, told me she had an empty bedroom if I ever needed a place."

"And what did you say?" Although Sam could tell he was holding back, his tone was close to accusatory.

Sam shrugged it off. "Nothing—much. The truth. That I wasn't coming back until we found the thing that killed Jessica."

"Which we just did." Once again Dean's voice had changed, this time sounding resigned and tightly constrained.

"We can stay there until we get settled," Sam went on quickly. "I could go back to school, you could find a job…"

Dean's reaction was instant. "What?" he sputtered.

"What else would we do?" Sam pointed out, spreading his arms out.

"What do you mean? We'll do what we've always done."

"But…" Sam shook his head. "It's over, Dean."

"Sam, it's _never_ over."

Sam was afraid he'd say that. In fact, he _knew_ he would say that. "This is, Dean. What we've been looking for our entire lives – it's finished now." And they almost lost Dean in the process. "We've done our part, we've made our sacrifices."

Dean's eyes narrowed and he looked away. "It's never over," he repeated.

ooOOoo

"Dammit, Dean."

Sam's mind was full with dark thoughts. With each passing moment, his feelings turned blacker, and since the conversation they had the day before, the deterioration only accelerated.

He continued trying to convince Dean, but his brother refused to listen to him. He wouldn't even talk to him. Instead, whenever Sam mentioned Stanford or hunting or their father, those walls slammed up.

And Sam found his own shell thickening. His jaw was perpetually clenched, and his eyeballs seemed to have hardened. His emotions ran the entire negative end of the spectrum. He went through anger, where he'd rail about the room with harsh shouts, and irritation as he bit out clipped words, and depression, when he'd barely speak at all, and desperation as all those other emotions melted together.

He just wanted Dean to talk to him. To tell him what the hell he was feeling. They hadn't discussed that night with the demon, even though it was almost a week ago, and they were still only fifteen miles away from where it happened. Dean never mentioned John either. That night, everything had changed - but he was acting as if it were all the same.

Wasn't Dean mad at their father?

Was he mad at Sam?

Was he disappointed? Did he blame them? Or did he accept it, maybe even expect it of them? While he was pinned to the ceiling, did he wonder where they were?

Didn't he see how this life was ruining them?

"Hey, Sam?" Dean asked suddenly, sounding hesitant. He was staring hard at himself in the mirror, and his eyes never left his own reflection. Even from his angle, Sam could see that his face still hadn't regained its full color. "Can I ask you a serious question?"

Sam looked at him with surprise. "Yeah, sure," he replied quickly, straightening up. "Of course."

Dean swiveled to face him, and Sam gave him what he hoped was a supportive look. "My scar…" he started. Then the corner of his lip twisted upwards. "Turn on or turn off?"

Sam blinked at him twice, and then his eyebrows came together. "W-What?"

"My scar, it's gonna look pretty damn ugly," Dean told him. "But I'm thinking, there's gotta be some chicks out there who dig that kinda thing, right?" Sam gaped at him as he continued thoughtfully. "I mean, as long as I have a cool back story, they shou-"

Sam jumped to his feet. "Dean," he exclaimed, interrupted angrily. "Come _on_!"

"What?" He seemed genuinely surprised by Sam's response. Sam realized he probably overreacted, and his tone had been more harsh than he intended.

But he had thought Dean was finally going to open up. When Dean wanted to ask a serious question, he had thought Dean would finally give him some clue about how he felt about everything that had happened. But instead, he'd just given him one of his usual jokes.

Sam scowled and looked away. "What's wrong with you?" Dean asked.

"What's wrong with _you_?" Sam shot back.

"Hey, I'm not the one who let a bug crawl up my butt and gave it an extended stay."

Sam slowly drew in several long, deep breaths. "Why are we still here, Dean?"

A moment passed as Dean seemed to consider his question. "You're right, Sam," he said, nodding. "We shouldn't be."

But Sam knew Dean didn't mean what he wanted him to mean – and he was right. Dean made his way to the desk and sat down in front of the laptop.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked warily.

"Finally getting off my lazy ass."

Sam protested immediately. "Dean, you're _healing_." But Dean's fingers were already flying over the keyboard.

Thirty minutes later, over Sam's continued arguments, he found a hunt in a town near Death Valley, only a few hours away. Sam listened as he explained, and his words throbbed through Sam's ears, a dull, annoying force Sam couldn't escape.

For the past several years, something had been digging up fresh graves and stealing bodies. Later, the bones of those bodies would be found scattered out in the wilderness somewhere. Authorities suspected coyotes or wolves. But recently, people had started to disappear from the outskirts of the same town, their mangled remains turning up later. And while they still blamed desperate wild dogs, the attacks seemed too vicious and the prey too large for typical coyote behavior.

The case was made stranger by statements made by two separate witnesses. The first came from a man, Laurence, who had been hiking with a friend. His friend had sprained an ankle, and as Laurence helped him make his way back, they heard a horse whinny somewhere off of the trail. His friend hobbled to investigate while Laurence stayed behind, uninterested and exhausted after supporting his friend. He never saw his friend again.

The second statement came from a young lady named Audrey. She and her sister, Gina, had also been hiking when they saw a golden retriever playing just off of the trail. Audrey hated dogs, but her sister, who instantly felt sorry for the dog all alone in the middle of nowhere, chased after it even as it ran out of sight. Gina's remains were found two days later.

"Eater of the dead, picking off weary desert travels, maybe even shapeshifting abilities…" Dean listed with a grim-but-triumphant raised eyebrow.

Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Sounds like some kind of a ghoul type creature," he admitted despite himself.

"If we hurry, we can get there before nightfall."

"_Tonight_?" Sam sputtered. "Dean, you're not exactly in the right condition-"

"What am I supposed to do?" Dean retorted, cutting him off. "Sit around 'healing' while it kills another innocent person?"

Sam shook his head when Dean stood up, unable to hide a grimace. "This is insane, Dean," he said. "You can't expect us to jump right into another hunt so soon after—" But he stopped himself when Dean shot him a look. "You're hurt," Sam said evenly. "You're not at a hundred percent."

He knew he had offended Dean, who took any insinuation that he couldn't do his job as an insult to his manhood. Dean couldn't argue his point, so he stubbornly refused to say anything.

"It's not our responsibility," Sam went on, ignoring his glare. Immediately he knew that was the wrong thing to say.

"It became our responsibility the moment we found out about it," Dean replied. At Sam's glare, he went on. "Dad raised us to fight these evils, to protect others."

Sam spoke slowly and deliberately. "Dad's not here anymore."

"Don't you think I know that?" Dean shot back, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "But there's an evil out there, and people who need protecting. I don't have any other choice. I gotta keep up the good fight, no matter what."

Sam stood up then. "And how many choices do you think _I_ have?"

A weird, ill look came over Dean's face, and Sam wasn't sure which nerve he struck. "That's not funny, Sam," he said. "Don't even start with that."

So Sam didn't.

He didn't explain how everything had changed, how his options had narrowed sharply into a single point. He didn't explain how Dean was his only choice.

"I'm going," Dean said. "With or without you."

ooOOoo

Sam couldn't believe they were back to hunting so soon. He couldn't believe he was back to hunting at all.

From the moment he first slammed the Impala trunk shut after Jessica's death, even if it wasn't explicit, Sam had planned on returning to school as soon as they killed the demon once and for all. He'd only hunted to get closer to that objective, and even though he had some good times with his brother, and even though he felt as if he had done some real good for a lot of people, he couldn't wait to get out of that world again.

But they screwed it up. The one thing they had been preparing for their whole lives, and they screwed it up. And now their father was gone, and it was only Sam and Dean. And if Sam left, there would only be Dean.

Sam hated himself. If only he had insisted on researching more. After all, he was the scholarly one, wasn't he? The reasonable, level-headed one? He should have known better.

If they hadn't been completely coldcocked by the demon like they had, their dad wouldn't have left them alone, and Sam would have been free to leave the two behind. And if John had gone away anyway, Sam at least would have known Dean could take care of himself. He knew that the two of them could make their own decisions, and if Dean wanted to continue hunting after Sam went back to school, that was his choice. He knew what he was doing. Sam had been prepared for that, even back when he suspected his father might have been dead.

But that night changed everything.

Now…

Sam was absolutely terrified that Dean would end up on that ceiling again. That if he left, one day he'd get a call telling him Dean had been found mauled to death or completely drained of blood or slashed to pieces or any other of a number horrible, bloody, painful deaths they'd come across in all their years.

So when Dean packed up and threw his things in the Impala, Sam had no choice but to follow. He found himself behind the wheel – he insisted – taking the two of them to small town near the outskirts of Death Valley so they could stop a ghoul from devouring human flesh.

When they arrived a few hours later, they found the trail where the most people had disappeared. It was night by the time the two Winchesters started walking it, but the moon provided enough light for them to see. They had to go at night, since all the attacks had occurred around sundown or later.

Dean should have more sense, Sam thought. He knew better than to go into a hunt at less than full capacity. But that knowledge seemed to have disappeared. "Ghouls tend to pick off the weak and injured," Dean reasoned. "That's why I'm perfect for the job."

Sam walked at his side, unable to watch him shuffle along the trail but unwilling to let him out of his sight. He knew Dean was emphasizing his pained expression and suffering walk to attract the creature - but he couldn't stand knowing his show was based in truth.

To kill the ghoul, it had to be completely destroyed, through such means as decapitation or fire. Sam carried a sword that looked like a walking cane, and Dean had the flare gun. By all means it should be a simple kill – ghouls sometimes possessed supernatural strength and speed as well as the ability to change into animal guises, but they were generally mindless and easy to overwhelm if as long as one knew what they were doing – and if anyone knew what he was doing, it was a Winchester.

But when Sam heard the barking of an injured dog, he froze.

The sound came from Dean's side of the trail, and Sam couldn't move as Dean started towards it. He saw Dean move away from, watched his back as Dean marched calmly towards battle. The only thing he could hear was the barking dog, the call of a vicious ghoul that had been terrorizing the area. With each step that took Dean closer towards the sound, the bark echoed more loudly, more harshly in Sam's ear.

Then Dean's foot slipped against a loose rock, and he yelped in pain as his middle was jostled from the sudden jolt. It ripped Sam from his seized thoughts, spurring him to action.

Sam jogged to catch up, quickly coming to Dean's side. By then Dean had recovered and was continuing on his way, acknowledging Sam with an exasperated glance.

They stepped through the scraggy brush that littered the dusty ground, following the sound of barking down a shallow embankment.

Eventually Sam could make out the shadowy form of a golden retriever, standing out in the open, its head cocked in an innocent manner. At once, Sam slid his sword from his cane and Dean pulled out the flare gun.

The dog reacted just as quickly. In a flash, it had turned into a gangly form, a haggard, corpse-like man. A ghoul, after all. Before either of them could react, it leapt at them, targeting Dean who was half a step closer.

Dean jumped back just in time, and its claws slashed through only air. But Dean lost his footing and stumbled backwards, falling to the ground on his backside. He quickly lifted his flare gun and aimed it at the ghoul's chest, but the creature swiped at him, knocking the weapon out of his hands.

The entire sequence only took a couple of seconds, but while Sam was watching it happen, while he saw his brother sprawled on the ground, gasping with fresh pain, he felt his blood rise into a explosive crescendo inside him, and he burst forward through a haze of red.

He had his sword in his hand, yet he used his free arm and shoulder to ram into the ghoul and yank it to the ground.

Something came over Sam as he stood looking down at its inhuman, ghoulish face. With rage coursing through, Sam kicked the thrashing creature hard, sending his boot crashing into its ribs. He heard them crack under his blow, and he rammed his foot into the side again. The ghoul let out an inhuman shriek, lifting its arms to slash razorlike claws at Sam. Sam easily avoided them, ramming the heel of his boot into its chest.

Then Sam took a hold of his sword and started whaling blows on the ghoul, swinging his sword through the air again and again. Each _twick _as the sword sliced through flesh had Sam sending his blade through the air again, desperate to hear that sound again. The sword swung faster and faster.

"Sam!" But Sam ignored Dean's voice, lashing at the demon below him, his blade flashing against the moonlight with each frantic pass. Sam kept hacking at the body, his muscles straining from the force of his blows, but it was an ache he needed more of.

"_Sam_!"

And then arms were threading through his, restraining him, pulling him backwards. "Sam!" Dean said again, his voice breathless and harsh near Sam's ear. "It's okay! You got him!"

Sam panted and dropped his sword, breaking away from Dean's grip. He ignored Dean's concerned expression. The ghoul was now only a mangled body, and Sam had to look away.

To be sure, Dean lit a match and tossed it down. The orange flames spread quickly, drawing Sam's attention and filling his vision entirely, and he watched with dulled senses as they consumed the ghoul's dead body. Sam wondered how many tongues of fire he had seen in his life. He wondered how many more he would see.

ooOOoo

That night, Jessica hung above him, just as she had many nights before. Her eyes were wide, gaping, horrified, the last look she would ever wear. The last emotion she would ever experience. Her face was lifeless, her body bloodied along the middle.

Sam stared up at her, calmly. He was used to this by now. This was what was given to him. This tragedy, this horror – his life was full of them. That was his life.

And he shouldn't have been surprised when Jessica's image was replaced with Dean's. Her eyes became his. Frozen with the same horror. But this time, his lips didn't move because Sam was too late.

"You did this, Sam," he heard his father say. "You fix this, Sam." John stood somewhere behind him, unseen, but Sam didn't turn to him. He couldn't. Dean was hanging above him.

"I don't know how," Sam replied. "Dad, help."

But his dad was no longer there. His footsteps echoed with hollow thuds until they slowly faded away. The two brothers were left alone.

"Goddamn, this hurts," Dean suddenly said. His eyes were still frozen wide, the look of terror still plastered to his face, but his voice was the same tone Sam had heard countless times before. "Sam, gimme my shotgun and holy water."

Sam stared up him, unable to move. Dean's blood dripped on his forehead.

And finally Sam was ripped from his nightmare, coming awake with a gasp.

But a bright image of Dean was still hovering before him, somewhere passed the foot of his bed, and for a long, disorienting moment, he thought he was still trapped inside his dream. In the dark hotel room, Dean was strangely illuminated against the wall. He was bent over, his face twisted in pain, one arm bracing him upright, the other one holding his shirt open so that his wound was bared.

The image burned itself into Sam's mind, and he couldn't look away. And then he realized he was looking at the wall mirror reflecting the mirror in the bathroom, where Dean was standing, braced against the sink, his back hunched and tense. His face twisted in pain. And it was real and Sam still couldn't look away.

The image swam and blurred before him as Sam felt his eyes begin to fill, and the water grew too heavy and broke away into tears.

He hunched over then himself, grabbing handfuls of the bedspread and dragging them towards him, just to get himself to stop shaking. His chest heaved as the air in his lungs exploded outwards, and his throat tried to hold it back. But the sob escaped with an abrupt gasp, and it somehow released all the snot and tears that had gathered in his nose and in the next moment he tried to sniff it back, and the air he drew in left through his mouth in another shaky gasp.

But he couldn't stop. He clenched his eyes shut, but still he couldn't escape his nightmare.

"Oh, Jesus, Sam, what is it?" Dean asked, his voice suddenly beside him. "What's wrong? What is it?"

But the short, sudden sprint from the bathroom left his brother panting, and though he tried to suppress it, Sam could hear the pain in his voice. And Sam shook his head, unable to speak, his throat and chest constricting, and his face wet and full.

"Sam, it's okay. You hear me? Everything's all right."

He didn't want to do this, not in front of Dean, not at all, but he couldn't stop, and the harder he tried, the worse the hiccups became. Maybe the room was too dark and suffocating, maybe he was too exhausted and helpless. Maybe he'd been clinging to his anger for so long, the despair he'd been ignoring finally broke through. So he let it out, unable to look at Dean, forcing himself to focus on his breathing, but unable to force the images from his mind.

His voice came out as a wet gasp, a broken sob. "When will this be over?" he asked Dean.

ooOOoo

Dean was quiet the next day, and his face unusually pale. He seemed to drift away for long periods, his eyes focused on some faraway object, his back tense and his arms wrapped loosely but protectively around his middle.

At one point, he locked himself away in the bathroom, but he apparently forgot how thin the walls were. Sam could hear the low tone of his voice, and as the closer he crept, the more words he could make out. Dean had called their father, he realized, and by the one-sided conversation Sam was hearing, he knew Dean was forced to leave a message. Sam walked back to his bed and let himself fall backwards, his body bouncing against the mattress. After a moment, Dean came back out, but neither of them mentioned the phone call.

"Why _are _you still here, Sam?" Dean finally asked around midday. It was the first thing he said to Sam since he'd woken up that morning. From any other person, his tone would have sounded casual. But from Dean, it sounded hesitant, almost timid.

"Why do you think?"

Sam winced at his own words, at the tired desperation he let show, but he couldn't find the energy to apologize, so he sighed instead.

He blamed Dean, and he blamed himself, and he blamed their father. And at the same time, he couldn't blame anyone.

"Why do you do this, Dean?" he tried asking, treading on achingly familiar ground. "What do you really want?"

"Why can't you understand this _is_ what I want?"

ooOOoo

Later that day, Dean, stubborn as always, found rumors of a goatman running around in Idaho. The new hunt seemed to shake him awake, shake off the cloud that had muffled him and made him gray. "Scientific experiment gone awry," he told Sam, his voice finding life for the first time that day. His lips even twisted into his usual smirk.

"A scientific experiment gone awry?" Sam echoed dubiously.

"Scientific experiment gone awry," Dean confirmed, his smirk widening into a mischievous grin. "C'mon Sam, this sounds like a fun one."

It made Sam mad. It made him mad because his brother couldn't find happiness anywhere else. Because what he saw in his brother's face at that moment couldn't be true happiness. Because his brother went on doing the only thing he'd ever done, refusing to change. Because his brother thought he needed this hunt. Because his brother was still in pain.

Because the hunt sounded ridiculous. Sam closed his eyes briefly. "We're going to Idaho for a…goatman?"

"Yep," Dean said, nodding. "You know how goats like to eat tin cans and rubber tires?"

Sam snorted in spite of himself. "I've seen cartoons…"

"Yeah, well, this goatman's developed a taste for human flesh."

Sam felt like banging his head against something, or maybe his fist. Or maybe he just wanted to laugh. The same crazy, unbelievable insanity. The same mortal dangers. The same freaky mess. "Don't you realize how stupid that sounds?" he asked him.

Dean cocked a shoulder. "Stupid or not, someone has to put a stop to it."

"But why does that have to be you?"

Dean's lighthearted demeanor instantly changed when he realized Sam still hadn't let go of his earlier protests. Sam felt somewhat bad, but this was more important than Dean's ruined good mood.

Dean's arms went around his middle again, a habit he had quickly formed. "What other choice do I have?"

This again, Sam thought wearily. "You keep saying that," he told him. "You have plenty of choices."

But Dean shook his head. "No, Sam, I don't." As he explained, his voice took on a tremble so slight Sam wasn't sure if it were really there. "My whole life, I've never had a choice. I didn't have a choice when Mom went away. I didn't have a choice when you left for college. I didn't have a choice when Dad decided to leave me—leave _us_—behind."

Sam's stomach flinched, deeply upset by the emotion in Dean's voice but frustrated with his logic. "None of us had a choice when Mom was killed," he argued, refusing to be deterred by sympathy or guilt. "As for me and Dad leaving, those were our choices to make. And you have that same choice."

"No, Sam," Dean instantly shot back. "I _never_ had a choice. Not since the moment I saw evil take away my mother and destroy my family. There _is_ no choice, not to me."

Sam studied him for a long moment. "I don't have a choice either."

"What the hell?" Dean said, sounding surprised. "Of course you do."

"No, I don't. Not as long as I have to take care of your ass."

Dean's eyes widened and his face became drawn. "What? Is _that _why—"

He stopped himself with a quick, angry shake and then started over. "Is that what you think? I can take care of myself, dammit."

And Sam knew he could. Dean was strong, was smart when it came to hunting. But it only took one mistake. It only took being blindsided one time with no one providing backup. The way Dean recently insisted on charging into battle even though he was injured did nothing to allay Sam's fears.

And Sam couldn't get rid of the image of Dean on the basement ceiling.

ooOOoo

Sam just wanted it to be over. He wanted to finish it, wanted to be done with it as soon as possible. The whole thing was ridiculous.

"I can't believe we're risking ourselves for a 'scientific experiment gone awry,'" he muttered. And by _ourselves_, he really meant Dean, although he knew better than to say that out loud.

Dean was lumbering beside him, an arm clenched around his middle as he stepped carefully over tree roots and fallen branches. His other hand held a gun, steady as ever – but he had to compensate for that by going slower. He still didn't have all of his energy or strength, and his forced movements revealed the pain his wound still gave him.

It made Sam sick to see his brother like that. He should have tried harder to stop him. Made him at least wait until he was better. But Dean kept using the same argument, one he knew Sam couldn't deny. "What if this bastard kills someone else while we sit back and do nothing?"

But, Sam pointed out, it wouldn't do anyone any good if Dean ended up dead. Yet Dean was convinced he was invincible. Or that it was worth risking his life. Or some ridiculous crap like that.

All for some freak of nature.

Sam's frustration felt too close to anger for him to tell the difference. He reacted in the same way. While Dean was picking his way carefully through the forest, Sam stomped ahead.

He would finish this before Dean could do anything stupid. He would finish this, kill the bad guy, and they could get back to the hotel room where Sam would try to convince Dean that this was no life and Dean would continue to ignore him. Sam knew it was pointless, but he was sick and tired of it all.

He was sick and tired of walking through the woods, armed and ready for a fight. He was sick and tired of putting his life and his brother in danger. He was sick and tired of wondering which fight would be the end of them.

Sam crashed through the forest towards the suspected lair of the goatman. His training kicked in, and his footsteps were mostly quiet, but still, he thundered through the trees and brush, throwing branches aside and letting them snap back, their tips slapping against him and scratching across his sides.

He knew he was being reckless and foolish, and even though he wasn't ready to die, dying didn't seem quite as bad as it used to – at least he wouldn't have to deal with hunting anymore. And even though he didn't really mean it, the sentiment pushed him forward, made him brash and uncaring.

And as he stormed through the forest, a sudden dip took him off guard, and though he tried to keep his footing, he was going too fast and the sharp decline tripped up his feet and pulled them from under him. He fell forward, crashing to his hands and knees, and the momentum sent him tumbling sideways until he was rolling down the hillside.

As he rolled, his body and limbs slammed against rocks and sharp twigs until the hill spilled him at the bottom. The impact knocked the gun out of his hand and sent it flying out of reach.

Sam groaned and cursed to himself as he gathered himself together so he could push himself up. He was so angry he almost felt like crying. But instead, he got his knees and hands underneath him and managed to climb to his feet. He ached all over, but fortunately, none of it was severe. Bruises and scratches only, he realized after a quick assessment. Nothing broken.

But it hurt like hell and was just so _stupid_.

Sam stumbled towards where his gun had landed, trying to keep his gasps to himself. Yep, what a pair he and his brother made. Letting themselves get beaten up on a regular basis.

His handgun had skidded out of sight and Sam had to rummage through the brush to find it. Gritting his teeth, he bent over as he ran his eyes over the ground, cursing the hidden weapon all the while. He hoped Dean was still far behind him because the last thing he wanted to hear was whatever remark he knew Dean would come up with.

And then something sharp and solid slammed into his back.

It caught him near his shoulderblade and sent him sprawling to the ground. Sam instantly knew he was in trouble, and he rolled over, ignoring the fresh pain that radiated from his back.

The monster stood snorting over him. It looked almost like a satyr, only its parts weren't as neatly defined. It had the legs of a goat and a hairy torso, but its hands were human, and his face was melted between the two. Two horns gave it a devilish appearance, but it looked more hungry and animalistic than actually evil. The drool streaming from his mouth only added to that.

It lifted one of its hoofed legs and struck downwards. Sam rolled out of the way right before it could pin him. He shot out his arms to his left and right, vainly searching for his gun while keeping his attention on the goatman.

He rolled back as the leg came down again, striking against the dirt next to his neck. Sam gasped, and the stamping leg forced him to roll once more.

But this time brought him wedged against a tree trunk and he had no more room to move. Sam looked up at the goatman helplessly, his arms still searching for steel or even a heavy piece of wood and finding nothing.

_But Dean…_

On cue, two shots rang out. At least one hit their mark. Sam lay frozen except for his jaw, which alternatively clenched and fell open with shaky convulsions as he tried to get air into his lungs. Above him, the goatman wavered and moaned before it toppled to the side, crashing to the forest floor with one last shudder. As it fell down and out of the way, Sam saw Dean standing behind it, panting, his smoking gun held tightly in his hands.

ooOOoo

"How could you let a _goatman_ get the best of you?" Dean demanded. "Jesus, Sam…"

Sam ignored him, refusing to even hiss as Dean applied disinfectant to his wound. "Look at you. Your back's a mess. You're lucky as hell you didn't break anything." Sam clenched his jaw but didn't say anything.

"What the hell were you thinking, Sam?" Dean went on angrily as he pressed a bandage against his back. "You gotta get it together, or you're going to get yourself killed! I can't always protect you, not when you space out, and not when you run off like that."

"Protect me?" Sam finally spoke. "We protect each other."

He pulled away from Dean, standing up and shrugging into his shirt, pulling it down over his newly-bandaged back.

Dean had been protecting him his whole life, and as soon as Sam was old enough, he started to return the favor. Since their teens, they've watched each other's back, gave each other support, made sure the other was safe. Sometimes they took it for granted that the other person would be fine and they split up when needed. And usually they were right. But sometimes, Dean ended up on the ceiling.

As long as Dean was hunting, Sam would be right there with him.

But it tore him up inside, seeing what it did to his brother. Seeing how his brother clung onto hunting as if it were his only lifeline, holding steadfastly even when it almost ruined him. Refusing to let go even as they were falling apart.

Whatever misguided ideas Dean held on to, it wasn't his duty to do this. To face darkness after every corner, to see loved ones disappear one right after the other – no one should live that. But Dean was forcing himself to, and by process, so was Sam.

"Look at you, Sam!" Dean said, his voice commanding attention. "You could have been killed!"

Sam whirled on him. "God dammit, Dean! Look at _us_!" he shouted back. "Look at what we've become!"

He had stunned Dean into a brief silence. "What do you mean?" he finally asked, guarded and confused.

"We're a goddam mess!" Sam replied with a force that scratched his throat. "You're crawling around half _dead_, and I'm following you like some sick puppy. Our life is so screwed up, but instead of changing anything, all you can think about is hunting!"

"Hey, that's not _all_--" But he stopped when he saw Sam's humorless expression and switched to a defensive tone. "Yeah, well, it's what I do," he said.

"But you talk about nothing else! Or at least, nothing important, nothing about what's really going on!" Sam slapped a hand against the desk top. "What kind of life is that?"

A sudden, stunned look came over Dean and he rose to his feet. "Were you _trying_ to kill yourself?" he asked after a pause.

Sam sighed with frustration. Just like Dean to completely miss the point. "Don't be stupid."

"You didn't answer my question."

"No, Dean, I wasn't trying to kill myself," Sam replied. "The goatman was trying to kill me. Just like Bloody Mary was trying to kill me, and the shapeshifter. Just like the wendigo and the demon and even _I_ tried to kill _you. _Don't you see how incredibly _wrong_ that is?"

Dean seemed unaffected. "It comes with the territory."

"What 'territory,' Dean? You mean the life we were forced into? The life we need to step away from?"

"Sam, stop being so emotional. You're overreacting, all right? We had a bad gig, and I know that spooked you, but stuff like that happens." Dean had that confident, unruffled air of his, and he lifted his hands in casual supplication. "Just…take a deep breath, okay? Our life—is it really so bad?" He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, obviously expecting Sam to agree with him.

Sam swallowed and licked his lips, knowing what he had to say and already regretting it. "Dad said to move on."

His words hit their mark, causing an instant, physical reaction. Dean took an involuntary step backwards, and his face suddenly went pale. "W-what?" he stammered.

Sam had to clear his suddenly dry throat. "Back at the hospital, right before he left. He said we need to move on."

Dean moved blindly towards the bed before he dropped down onto it. He sat at the edge and hunched over as he stared at the floor, unspoken thoughts flickering across his face. Sam watched him silently and waited, trying to ignore the tears that threatened his own eyes.

"You have a choice now, Dean. Can't you finally realize that?"

But Dean seemed to ignore him. And then after a moment, he started to shake his head. "No," he said.

"No, what?" Sam asked him.

"No." Dean looked up at him, his face determined despite the ashen sheen it had taken on. "We're doing a lot of good, and I can't just stop that, Sam. I don't _want_ to. If you want to say that's my choice, then that's my choice."

Sam felt his stomach twist at Dean's words.

"At what cost, Dean?" he pointed out fiercely, desperately. "Until your soul turns black from all the evil you're exposed to? Until there's nothing left of you? Until you're torn to pieces by some monster? Until your life is sucked dry, or your body broken in half?"

With each fate Sam flung at him, Dean never flinched. "It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make." His words were too smooth, too certain.

Sam shook his head, his lower lip trembling. "But I'm not, Dean."

He wasn't willing to lose another person he loved. He wasn't ready to lose Dean. Sam paused to take in a deep breath. "This has to end," he said firmly, though it came out more as a desperate plea than a command.

It took a moment before Dean responded. He spread his arms out and looked up at him. "I'm not stopping you," he said, his voice low and rough.

"Yes, you are!" Sam cried instantly. "Why can't you see that?"

Dean's eyes were watering, Sam realized. "Don't, Sam…Please don't do this," he pleaded with him. His voice held a weak tremor, but he pushed through it as if it weren't there. "I can't take this anymore."

Sam ran a hand over his face, suddenly feeling exhausted and drained. He knew he was fighting a losing battle, and he dropped his head in defeat.

"Neither can I," he said, clenching his jaw. "There's no way out of this, is there."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean turn to him and Sam lifted his head to meet his gaze. Dean looked at him squarely in the face, but though he tried, Sam couldn't read his eyes. The silence stretched for so long between them Sam almost said something just to fill it.

And then Dean finally spoke. "Yes, there is."

That took him off guard. "What?" Sam asked, instantly doubting him.

Dean hesitated, and Sam didn't like the look that passed over his face. "I…I'll tell you later."

For the moment, Sam accepted that, too tired to press. They said no more, and after a few minutes, Sam excused himself to the bathroom. It was late, and he was ready for the day to be over.

When he came out, Dean was sitting on the bed, his face stony but his eyes filled with a tormented kind of worry. And as Sam made his way to his own bed, he was suddenly hit with a dizzying wave of fatigue.

Suddenly alarmed and confused, he stumbled to his bed, sitting down heavily on top of it. But that wasn't enough, and his eyelids started to pull themselves close despite his struggles to keep them open.

Dean was watching him, his eyes miserable but knowing.

"Dean? Wha…?"

He couldn't finish as he finally succumbed to his body's demands. He let himself fall completely prone, tumbling bonelessly onto the bedspread. He had just managed to pull his legs up onto the bed when he shut down completely. Then everything went black.

* * *

_So there it is. I had a hard time putting emotions into words, so I hope it made sense._

_I appreciate all of your thoughts and comments! _

_I'd also like to ask for a specific opinion: I never considered writing this fic without a happy ending. But I've gotten a lot of feedback suggesting that a happy ending isn't possible, that what Dean did (well, what I had him do) is unforgiveable. So I want to know what the rest of you think and whether you would buy a happy ending or not. It's hard for me as the writer to look at this objectively. _


	27. Chapter 27

_Gah, sorry I'm so late! First I suffered from a minor bout of writer's block, and to top that off, the season finale came along and holy cow, how am I supposed to function after _that?_ I still haven't fully recovered. _

_This is where I apologize for the rough edges and lack of editing and way too many words, but you've heard it all before. I'm also promising a quicker next chapter, but you all know how reliable I am._

* * *

At 2:05 am, a garbled voice came over the loudspeaker, announcing the arrival of bus 154, with an ultimate destination in California. The handful of people inside the station immediately moved from their tired positions, gathering up their belongings. They trudged their way through the door where the bus waited outside as the voice needlessly repeated itself overhead. 

Sam didn't hear the announcement. He was two buildings away, bent over a desk and straining his eyes through near darkness.

He had to pick the lock and dismantle the security alarm to get in. Dean would have been proud – if it had been anywhere other than a library. But Sam needed to use the internet, and it was the closest place with access.

He sat hunched in front of a computer, using the low security lights and the glow of the monitor to read the newspapers he had spread out before him. Between the internet and the newspapers stored in the library, he slowly put the pieces together. It took him much longer than he wanted, but he worked steadily and resolutely until he found what he needed.

Four hours later, Sam flipped open his cell phone and dialed. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the phone to his ear and counted the rings before a voice answered.

"Hi, Lt. Stevens, this is Sam," he started, running a hand through his hair. "I'm really sorry to even ask you this, but…I need a ride."

ooOOoo

Fifteen minutes later, Lt. Stevens picked him up in front of the bus station. Even though they were friends, Sam didn't think it would have been a good idea to tell her he'd just broken into the local library.

By then the sun had already peeked above the horizon. Sam loaded his bags into her trunk, apologizing and thanking her the entire time he was shoving his belongings into place. Lt. Stevens – Elizabeth, she insisted – waved him off, telling him she needed the break, and that she didn't really mind the four hour drive. When Sam's guilty look refused to lift, she added that she had a cousin in Tulsa she hadn't seen in awhile.

Besides, he'd just helped put an end to a two-centuries-long murder streak, so she owed him.

Quickly accepting that, Sam climbed into the front of the car, anxious to leave. From the tense way he was sitting, he felt like he was perched on the seat. But as hard as he tried to feign casualness, he couldn't get his spine to relax back against his seat.

For the first part of their drive, as trees and fields flew past their windows, neither person said much to each other. Sam didn't miss the curious glances Elizabeth shot his way, but he couldn't get himself to explain, not even bothering to make an excuse.

He considered telling her about the case, but it would already be confusing and chaotic enough, and he didn't want to complicate matters any further. Nor did he want to put her in danger by facing a creature she had no experience with.

Before he had dropped him off at the bus station, Dean said he was going to Tulsa to look for a shapeshifter. Armed with that information, Sam had found the stories almost right away in the library's resources. In fact, all he needed to know was Tulsa, because as it turned out, the city's headlines for the past several months were dominated by a string of murders.

The first had been a sorority girl whose throat had been slit. Before the attack, a couple of her friends had seen her boyfriend enter her room. However, the boyfriend's alibi was supported by 30 students and a professor who had seen him giving a presentation in class the same time the young woman had been killed.

The second murder happened in front of an entire party. A man had been talking with his friends when his wife came up to him and started to argue with him, only to draw a gun a few minutes later and shoot him in the chest before fleeing. But his wife, an ER doctor, had been called in to work two hours earlier. She never left the hospital, and in fact had been setting a leg when her husband was wheeled in.

Authorities were called to another home one afternoon, where they found the body of Paul Rodriguez. Eyewitnesses reported seeing a fellow neighbor enter his house just before an argument was heard, a fight which eventually escalated into screams and gunshots. However, the suspect's body had already been found fifteen minutes earlier in a shallow creek, an apparent suicide complete with note that read "I did it."

There had been a half dozen other murders in the area as well, but the police already arrested suspects who had been placed at the scene of the crime. Sam had to wonder how many of them were actually guilty.

Even though Sam had found the articles right away, he spent another four hours trying to pinpoint exactly where he needed to go. It took him the rest of the night before he could make any connection between the outwardly-random crimes. But then he discovered that three suspects and five victims had lived in the same suburb at one point. It was a tenuous connection, but it was all Sam could come up with.

As they sped towards Claremont, Oklahoma, Sam could only hope Dean had come up with the same connection.

The highway stretched endlessly before them as each long minute ticked by. Sam thought he should make polite conversation to help pass time, but he was too absorbed in his thoughts and felt selfish enough to spare attention only to the road signs marking each mile.

His mind still seemed to be loading memories, processing those thoughts that were suddenly uncovered. He didn't know what to make of the old, familiar feelings that had suddenly resurfaced in his mind, but he couldn't tear himself away. Fortunately, Elizabeth seemed to sense that and left him alone.

Short memories started to pop up, events he hadn't thought of in years.

He remembered in the fourth grade, he'd scored the highest on a state history test, even though the Winchesters had just moved there three months earlier. In fact, he'd been the only one to get an A, and he missed only one question. Sam blushed red but he was secretly proud when the teacher announced his accomplishment to the class. Mrs. Henson even placed on his test a large baseball sticker with the words "Home run!" written in white bubble letters. He thought he was too old for stickers, but Kimmie, the pretty girl who sat behind him, loved both stickers and baseball, so he peeled it off and gave it to her and thought about her smile and the big red A on his paper for the rest of class.

But then at the end of the school day, Sam accidentally mentioned he had to help his father track down a local werewolf. His father had told him he wasn't supposed to say things like that, but he didn't quite understand that other kids didn't know about the things he knew about. And even though there were a couple of kids who still believed in Santa Claus, Sam didn't realize that believing in werewolves wasn't cooler like he thought it would be. It just made him strange. And Russell Johnson started to call him things like "stupid" and "weird," and Kimmie and a boy named Mark ran home crying. The next day Mrs. Henson had a long, patient talk with him, and the other kids started to look at him different.

Sam remembered when he was twelve and he forgot salt barriers were useless against water demons. His dad yelled at him because, unlike school tests, one mistake could cost lives.

It wasn't the first time Sam had heard that speech, but it was the first time he realized how much his life demanded of them. He wanted to buckle, to throw off that pressure, but his father refused to let him.

He remembered how scared he was when at ten, he first saw his dad get hurt, and at thirteen, when Dean was knocked unconscious and wouldn't wake up, and at fifteen, when Sam himself was trapped in some dark room by an evil spirit who latched onto him, surrounding him, suffocating him and refusing to let go.

He remembered how much he hated hunting. How he watched their lives become more and more messed up no matter how hard he dug his heels in.

If only he had known how much more screwed up his life would get..

Sam felt trapped in the car. If this had been the Impala, and Dean had been driving, they would have been going a lot faster. But he couldn't tell Lt. Stevens that.

They had just crossed the Oklahoma state line when Sam finally spoke up. The sudden sound of his voice was jarring, and it startled both Stevens and him. "When you first met us—"he started, pausing to lick his lips. "What did you think?"

Elizabeth looked at him in surprise. "How do you mean?"

"Just…anything. What were we like?"

Sam barely remembered that hunt when they met Lt. Elizabeth Stevens, just bits and pieces. It had been a few months into his senior year of high school, and their father sent him and Dean on a job while he finished clearing out a nasty poltergeist a few towns over.

They ended up grilling Lt. Stevens, the cop who had found the drained bodies that attracted John's attention. From her descriptions, they figured they were looking for a chupacabra, one that unfortunately attacked the elderly farming couple after weeks of killing off goats and sheep. Sam and Dean hadn't meant for Stevens to find out the truth about their hunt, but they didn't expect the police officer would be staking out the pasture the night they went to catch the creature.

What Sam mostly remembered from that hunt was the bickering. He and Dean fought the entire time, about everything. Most of it revolved around their approach. Sam wanted to trap the chupacabra, and Dean wanted to confront it head on. Either way would have worked, Sam knew now, but he also knew they hadn't really been fighting about strategies. They were just bickering, like brothers do—but they were bickering about hunting a mythical creature when Sam needed to study for a calculus test and Dean wanted to prove himself to their father.

And Sam remembered thinking how he couldn't wait to leave that hunt behind. Normal life finally stood within reach. His acceptance letter into Stanford had arrived just before they left for the poltergeist in Texas, a weekend trip that ended up costing a resentful Sam three extra school days.

Elizabeth frowned thoughtfully as she turned down the radio. "Well, I remember how sweet you were, Sam. I remember thinking how I didn't feel no wrong telling you anything, even the really crazy parts. And Dean, Lord, he was smooth." She snorted. "To this day, I still don't know what was the truth and what was pure bullcrap."

As he listened to her words, Sam stared ahead at the road that raced underneath their car. When she didn't continue, he glanced over at her. "What else?" he prodded. He didn't want to sound demanding or desperate, so he forced a shrug and a tiny smile. "I'm just curious how…someone from the outside might see us."

He remembered the strange questions they had to ask the police woman, forcing her to describe the mutilated bodies of people she knew. He remembered the way they ran across the pastures that night, chasing and shouting after the four-foot creature like crazed maniacs. He remembered the dangerous firearms they waved about as if they were only props, not because they were careless but because they were comfortable and confident with them.

"I'm not sure what you're lookin' to hear," Stevens said. But she must have seen something in his face because she went on anyway.

"You both were so young. Still are. But hell, you were both in your teens, weren't you?" Dean had been nearly 21, but that wasn't important. "You seemed so much older, though. Old and young at the same time, you know? I felt bad for you before I even knew why."

The chupacabra had panicked when they finally managed to corner it. Sam remembered seeing the needle-like claws puncturing Dean's forearm. He could still feel those claws stabbing into his own ankle. It was a nasty little creature, not too difficult to dispatch, but difficult enough to be annoying as it scrabbled and shrieked at them.

That hunt certainly hadn't been their most graceful. The sun had started to rise by the time they limped back to the car, bleeding and tired and pissed.

"I was so impressed by you two, though," Elizabeth said, shaking her head thoughtfully. "When I saw you in action--When that thing leapt at you, I noticed how Dean stepped in front to guard you. But it was so smooth and instant, like he didn't even have to _think_ about it."

Sam blinked as the memory suddenly filled his mind. He'd forgotten that.

"And when it latched onto his arm, you jumped forward and just yanked it off like it was only a tick—and not this crazy-looking _monster_ who just slaughtered Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson."

That was right, Sam had done that. It attacked his ankle when he flung it to the ground.

"You were both so young, but so…strong. No hesitation. You just attacked, guns a'blazing. Who knows how many more people would have been killed, how much livestock would have been lost - but you all just came in and did your thing without being asked, without getting any kind of reward."

She shook her head, glancing over at Sam. "I know I'm sounding a little overdramatic, but you just don't see that very often. Reminded me of old westerns in a way, you know? You both have that quiet strength, that dangerous power…Y'all were sneaky, of course, and you played dirty, but still…there was somethin' so noble in the air around you."

Sam was surprised by her words because that hunt hadn't been much at all compared to all of their other hunts. There was no big save, no dramatic heroics, not even a formidable foe. And she had seen their bickering, their faults, the darkness that seemed to hover over everything they did.

But he realized he wasn't shocked because her words echoed his own feelings when he had first met "John." When Sam didn't have these memories, when he couldn't even remember who he was or where he came from, he felt much the same way.

"You seemed so normal, but so different at the same time," Elizabeth told him. "I could tell what you guys do isn't easy. When you two drove off into the horizon, I kept thinking how I was supposed to take my own niece to early cheerleading practice, and I had to wonder where you were headed off to."

Even though Stevens was usually a friendly, talkative person, he knew she was saying more than she normally would have - laying it on extra thick - but maybe she could see the thoughts in his face. Maybe she was trying to say every little thing she could think he wanted or needed to hear. As impassive as he tried to be, he knew he wasn't fooling her. He wouldn't ask her early in the morning to drive him four hours away unless something was up.

He was grateful she never asked why he needed the ride.

"Hell, you even saved Gracie's cat," she finished. Sam snorted to himself, suddenly remember the tabby that had inadvertently became their bait. Elizabeth glanced over at him. "Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

Sam shook his head. He'd heard enough. "Thank you," he told her softly.

His back sank against the seat and he turned his gaze out the window.

"Does that help you any?" Elizabeth asked him.

"Maybe," Sam replied. It was as honest and complete an answer as he could give. He didn't know where he was, not yet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elizabeth nod and reach to turn the radio volume back into audible level.

Despite the thoughts swirling in his mind, exhaustion finally overtook him. The 24-hour nap he'd just woken up from seemed so long ago. The events from the past few days overwhelmed him, and it was too easy to fall into the gentle motions of the rumbling car engine.

Rather than figuring what he would say to his brother, he let himself drift away.

Sometime later, Elizabeth nudged him awake, announcing they were just minutes from Claremont. Sam immediately felt guilty for falling asleep. But that guilt was quickly replaced with anxiety as his focus shifted to outside.

He pulled his cell phone out, but a few minutes later, he was shoving it into his bag and cursing under his breath.

"Still no answer?" Elizabeth asked him.

Sam shook his head, his teeth clamping together. Before he had hoped his brother wasn't answering because of the time of day, but now that it was after ten, that weak hope fluttered away. Dean wasn't one to ignore phone calls, no matter who was calling. And after spending the entire night trying to get a hold of him, the battery was now dead.

As they drove through Claremont, Sam vowed to place a tracking device on Dean's car the first chance he could. Since he hadn't yet, they had to roll up and down each street in a systematic fashion, starting from the west and working their way east, combing the small town for Dean. Elizabeth offered to call it in, but she didn't look surprised when Sam turned her offer down.

Finally they found the familiar Impala, parked on a quiet neighborhood street rather than in a motel parking lot as Sam had been desperately hoping.

After making sure Sam had her number, Elizabeth let him off at the corner closest to the Impala. Sam stood on the sidewalk, his bags at his feet, watching silently as she drove away.

Once she was out of sight, he picked up his belongings and stalked to the Impala. With his spare key, he unlocked the door and threw his stuff into the backseat. Then he popped open the trunk and took out a handgun which he quickly loaded with silver bullets. He didn't know whether to be relieved or worried that Dean's favorite gun and its own silver bullets were already missing.

Even as he received no answer from Dean's phone, he'd been hoping he could find Dean without jumping into a hunt. He wanted to talk to Dean, needed to talk to him so he could get his thoughts in some kind of order. But now that he was standing there next to the empty Impala, his stomach twisted with worry and he knew his thoughts would have to wait.

He didn't want to be here. He wasn't ready yet. He'd only meant to track his brother down. But he didn't realize that meant immediately jumping into another hunt.

How did Dean get so deep into a hunt so soon? He only had a few hours head start.

Sam should have known though. In fact, a part of him already had. That was why he'd broken into the library instead of waiting for morning.

As Sam stood on the sunlit sidewalk, staring at the middle class neighborhood that surrounded him, he almost wanted to panic. He remembered St. Louis now. He now knew the bruises that had covered Rebecca. He could see the dead body that had Dean's face. He heard Dean's voice taunting him.

Another, more irrational fear made his heart pound. The last time he had been on a hunt with Dean, his brother could barely move, and he couldn't hide the pain that twisted his face. He knew Dean was healed now, he'd seen "John" in action. But he couldn't forget the last real hunt he'd been on with the man he knew as his brother. He didn't want to see that again.

But Sam had no choice, and he no intention of stopping. He pushed his new fears aside and let lifelong training and experiences take over.

Hedecided to check the sewers first, but they turned up empty. He found no evidence suggesting any type of lair, nor – thank God - did he see any piles of shed skin. He even called out for Dean, but there was no answer.

Once he was sure this hunt didn't involve a sewer-dweller this time, he gratefully climbed back up to the surface. His next step was the explore the homes that lined the streets.

The neighborhood was a typical, unassuming one, and quiet at the moment. He assumed most of the residents were away at work or out running daily errands. Unfortunately, none of the homes looked peculiar in any way, and not a single one stood out from the others.

But Dean somehow figured the shapeshifter was near. Sam sighed to himself, deciding to look at each house individually, hoping he could narrow the search down.

Dean would never park directly in front of the house he meant to visit, so Sam skipped that one. The house closest to him had toys littered in the front yard. Sam couldn't rule it out, but he decided to save that for later, thinking it was highly unlikely to be the home of a serial killer. The home next to that one was a duplex, and while it wouldn't have been impossible, he figured a killer wouldn't want to be in such close quarters with anyone else.

As he walked to get a closer look at the fourth home, the dog chained in the front yard started barking at him. Sam, who hadn't noticed the mutt, jumped at the sudden noise, his hand instinctively reaching for his gun.

He immediately relaxed when he saw the dog, but the dog didn't stop. It snapped and snarled at him, straining against its leash, and Sam frowned, instantly thinking of the dog he'd noticed back in St. Louis.

Just then, the front door opened and a woman walked out, climbing down the porch steps and on the concrete path that led to her driveway. "Sandy, stop it," she growled, her voice clearly irritated, as she walked past the agitated animal. It stopped barking, but a low, continuous growl made his throat rumble.

"Sorry," Sam called to her from the sidewalk. "Your dog doesn't seem to like me much."

She looked up and flashed a crooked grin at him. "Not your fault. Sandy doesn't seem to like anyone much."

Sam immediately put on his innocent expression, the one that gave him the best results. "Has she always been this grouchy?" he asked, sounding openly curious.

The woman shrugged, and Sam knew it worked. "She has ever since we brought her home three weeks ago." She looked at the dog with a frown. "She seemed so sweet at the pound, too. I think we should take her back, but my husband doesn't want to give up yet." She rolled her eyes, obviously annoyed by her husband's attitude, as she continued her way towards her driveway.

Sam wasn't finished yet, and he took a couple quick steps to keep the lady within earshot. "Sometimes dogs can be picky about who they like, you know? Maybe you have a neighbor, anyone nearby, who's making her uncomfortable," he suggested hopefully.

The woman tilted her head. "She does go crazy whenever she sees our neighbor, George. I don't really blame her though, the guy's creepy." As she spoke, she gestured at the house next to theirs, on the opposite side from where Sam came from. "I think he kinda hates us, actually," she said with a laugh.

"Well, there you go," Sam replied. "Maybe he's causing it."

"Maybe," the woman agreed with a shrug. "But what can I do about that?"

Sam studied the house, searching for signs of movement. "Do you know if George is home, by any chance?" he asked.

She cocked her head, startled by the question. "Why do you ask?" she asked. "Do you know him?"

The lie came disturbingly easily. "He used to work with my father," Sam replied.

Her eyes widened and she rushed to apologize. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean any disrespect," she said hastily. "Just forget what I said. I think George _is_ trying to change, you know, be more friendly, so..."

"Oh? How do you mean?"

"Well, he's been hanging around with us, my husband and me, a lot lately. Trying to be more social, I guess. I'm sure he's great guy, just got off on the wrong foot, that's all."

Sam gave her a friendly grin. "Don't worry, I won't tell him you said anything."

Her shoulders visibly relaxed and she let out a breath. "Thanks," she replied with a relieved smile. "Anyway, I'm afraid you missed him. I caught him leaving maybe an hour ago. He doesn't seem to have a schedule though, so he could be back anytime."

Sam frowned at the dark house. Was Dean inside? Did he get there before or after George left? Sam suppressed a sigh. He didn't even know if George was the right man. Just because a dog barks at a man, doesn't mean he's evil.

He turned back to the woman. "Well, thank you for you help. It was nice meeting you, ma'am."

"Alice."

Sam smiled. "Sam," he replied.

Alice gave Sam a short, friendly wave as she walked down to the end of her driveway to shove a letter into her mailbox. Sam kept a polite smile on his face, impatiently waiting as she went back to her house.As soon asshe was inside, he walked towards the modest, single-story house where "George" lived.

The closer he got, the more he started to believe he had the right place. Or maybe it was just his nerves.

Sam snuck around to the back, peeking through each window he passed. When he saw no movement in the shadowed home, he used a paperclip he'd swiped from the library to unlock the back door. As the door swung open, he knew there was no turning back now.

His senses heightened and his guard on alert, he crept through the house, his gun clutched ready in his hand. The silence unnerved him, and he knew he could be walking straight into a trap. But he had no other choice. If George _was_ the murderer, then Dean was probably somewhere in the house. Sam wanted to call for him, but he resisted the urge.

As he searched, hewas forced to wonder if he really had the right place. There were no piles of skin and other bodily remains as there had been in St. Louis. When the first floor proved empty, Sam started for the basement. He walked down the wooden stairs, stepping near their sides to lessen the chance of creaking.

Sam shivered, remembering the last time he had climbed down basement stairs to look for his brother.

This basement had a lower ceiling, and the room was lit by the small windows that rested just above ground. The main room was mostly unfinished, with a concrete floor and exposed beams and pipes in the ceiling. A couple of closed doors and the angles of the walls told him there were other rooms. The only rooms he had left to check.

The first door wasn't completely closed, and it led to a water heater.

Only one other room remained, and if there were anything to find in the house, it would be in there.

Sam stalked towards the simple wooden door and, since he knew it was near impossible to turn a knob without drawing attention, yanked it open with a violent twist.

Dean stood on the other side of the door.

At Sam's entrance, his head jerked up in surprise, revealing a black eye and a cut near his temple. His eyes widened and a flurry of emotions twisted and stretched his face for a brief moment.

"Dean!" Sam gasped, instantly relieved as he rushed forward.

And then Dean's left arm came up and he punched Sam right in the face.

* * *

_Next chapter coming soon. _


	28. Chapter 28

_Aw geez, I was so busy apologizing for the horrible delay last chapter, I forgot to thank you for all the amazing reviews for chapter 26! Holy moly - I should ask direct questions more often! Thanks for your input, you guys! And thank you so much for the comments on the last chapter, too. I wasn't expecting any since it was low on action, so each one meant a lot to me._

_Okay, before you start thinking this fic is spiralling out of control, I think it's safe to say there's only two, maybe three, more chapters left - but they'll probably be longer than this one. I just hope you're still enjoying this!_

* * *

Sam's head snapped back from the blow as he stumbled on his heels, his nose exploding with pain. 

Immediately Sam straightened and raised his gun, suddenly thinking that this wasn't Dean, this was just a guy who shifted into Dean's image. Just another St. Louis. Dean, after all, was right-handed.

But then Sam saw the handcuff that encircled his right wrist. Dean, he realized, was chained to a metal pipe that ran from the floor up through the ceiling. Taking a quick survey, Sam saw a few lengths of frayed rope and a twisted rag lying the floor. Dean had been bound and gagged, and Sam must have caught him just as he was trying to free himself.

"Dean, what the hell!" he exclaimed, raising his hand to test his nose. He suspected it was broken, and his fingertips came back red. Normally, a punch like that from Dean would knock a man unconscious, and the only reason Sam was still standing was because Dean had to use his left hand and his arms were still injured from Annie's attack.

"You bastard," Dean spat at him, taking a threatening step forward.

Sam frowned. This wasn't exactly the reunion he expected. "What's gotten into you?" he asked. "What'd I do?"

"Oh, come on--don't play dumb," his brother shot back angrily. "I know you're not Sam, so just give it up, all right?"

Sam's frown deepened. "What do you mean? Of course I'm Sam."

"The hell you are."

"Dean, listen," Sam replied, rolling his eyes. They didn't have time for this. "How could the shapeshifter turn into me if I wasn't even here?"

Dean grunted with annoyance. "You should have used that argument _before_ you turned into my father, you jackass," he replied.

It had turned into their dad? Sam blinked a couple of times, suddenly speechless. That was different. In St. Louis, the shapeshifter had to establish some type of visual or physical connection before it could change into a particular person.

"Dean, I'm not the shapeshifter, alright?" he said forcefully. "I'm your brother."

"My brother is on a bus headed for California," Dean shot back.

"No, I changed my mind," Sam told him, shaking his head. "I needed to talk to you."

But Dean only snorted and lifted his eyebrows. "Yeah, sure."

Frustrated and unsettled, Sam paused to study him while his mind frantically tried to think of a way to convince him. Dean looked back warily, his eyes narrowed and his posture tense and ready.

Two brothers standing before each other, one not realizing who the other one was. The situation was infuriatingly familiar to Sam.

For a split second, Sam thought about taking advantage. It was so tempting. His brother was locked up, unable to go anywhere. Maybe Dean would tell a shapeshifter things he would never tell Sam. Dean wasn't the type to spill his guts to anyone, let alone his enemies, but even the sarcastic answers he spouted could tell Sam more than the brushed off replies Sam usually got from his brother.

But Sam couldn't do that. He dismissed the idea as quickly as it had occurred to him. As much as he wanted to get inside Dean's mind, he'd do it the long, old-fashioned way. The ugly version of a chick-flick moment.

But he'd have to set Dean free, first.

He sighed to himself. "Look, let's just get you out of here," he said, stepping forward.

But Dean reacted violently, shoving Sam away with his free arm. "Stay away from me, you son of a bitch."

Sam stumbled backwards with a grunt. "I'm trying to get you free!" he protested, raising his arms in a quick surrender. But Dean only snorted derisively. "Dean, it's _me_. You can tell that, can't you?"

"I can tell you're projecting my mental image of my brother, yeah." Dean crossed his arm around his middle. "Great job, by the way. My father was at least believable."

So the shapeshifter used mental projections somehow – Sam filed that away for future reference, along with Dean's last remark. Right now, he was more concerned about getting his brother to trust him. "But I'm trying to release you!" Sam tried again, showing him the twisted paperclip he had in his hand.

"So what then—You taunt me, make me think I'm safe and free, just for giggles?"

Sam frowned, confused by Dean's resistance. Even if he _were _just toying with him, Dean would still take that opportunity to get free. He can't fight as effectively if he's cuffed into place.

"Hey, listen to me read _your _mind this time," Dean went on scathingly, startling Sam. "Let's see--You'll release me and we'll go upstairs together, right? And you'll tell me things you know I want to hear." His glare darkened with each word he spoke. "And just when I start thinking that, hey, maybe you really are my brother, you'll shove all my deep dark nightmares down my throat and tell me how much you hate me, just to see if I'll cry for you."

He raised his eyebrows jeeringly. "Pretty close, huh? And then--get this--right at the height of this little angst-fest, you're going to blow me away with the gun you stole right from my own car."

Sam glanced down at the gun he still held in his hand. "What? No! Dean, you don't-"

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "Or maybe you'll stab me in the back, or hell, slit my throat. That's the only part of your plan that isn't so goddamn predictable."

Horrified, Sam shook his head and wanted to interrupt, but Dean talked right over him.

"Whatever you do, you'll make sure we're out in public, just so people can see that my brother was the one to do it. That way you get to ruin two lives at once." Sam made a disbelieving, protesting noise in his throat, but that only angered Dean. "That's how you work, isn't it?" he spat. "That's how you get off, you sick freak?"

Sam felt his stomach twist, not realizing until just then how complicated this was turning out. "Dean, you have to trust me…"

"I'm not playing your stupid little game," Dean shot back. "If you want a fight, we'll do it right here."

"But I don't want to fight you," Sam tried to tell him, wishing his voice wasn't so pleading. "I just want to get us out of here." He took a step forward, brandishing the paperclip in his hand.

"I'm not going with you," said Dean, stopping him in his tracks.

Sam didn't like the sick sheen on his brother's face, and he knew he needed to end this as soon as he could.

"Dean, I remember now," he told him in a rush. "At the bus station, I remembered the demon, I remembered how you were hurt." Sam spoke frantically, the words tumbling from his mouth as he desperately tried to get Dean to believe him. "And I called Lt. Stevens, asked her for a ride. You told me you were in Tulsa, and we tracked your car down. Dean, I remembered how we were, how I was in a really black place, and I remembered how things ended. I didn't want to go back to Stanford, I wanted to find you--"

"Stop it!" Dean suddenly shouted, interrupting him. He chopped his arm through the air in a violent gesture. "Stop playing with me—Just kill me now, alright?"

Sam froze instantly, feeling the blood drain from his face. "What?" he breathed.

"If you're going to kill me, kill me now, dammit."

Sam had never seen that reaction from his brother before. He couldn't tell if he was bluffing and putting on a tough front, or if he really meant what he said. Sam stared at him for a long moment, and Dean glared back unwaveringly.

"So you're giving up? Just like that?" Sam asked, appalled. He didn't hold back the shock or anger that colored his tone.

"If that's what it takes." Dean looked back at him, his chin slightly raised. "I'm not going through this with you. I'm not letting you drag my brother into this."

Sam wanted to smack the sense into him, and he would have if he thought it would work. Dean had always been protective; that didn't surprise Sam. Family was Dean's weak spot. But that never meant giving himself up, not unless it was a last resort. And Dean never really believed in last resorts – there was always another way.

Sam set his jaw. "If you're giving up, then I am too," he said.

He could tell that startled Dean, though his expression only flickered for an instant. "What do you mean?" Dean asked after a beat, sounding weary and hesitant at the same time.

Sam handed him his gun, turning it so it was pointing back at himself. As soon as Dean's hand was wrapped firmly around it, Sam stepped backwards and held up his hands. "There," he said. "Shoot me now."

"What?" Dean stammered, his eyebrows furrowing. The hand holding the gun bobbed through the air.

Sam knew he was taking a big risk, but he counted on the fact that Dean rarely killed a creature in cold blood. As long as Sam didn't try to attack Dean, he figured – _hoped_ – he'd be safe. "If you're sure I'm the shapeshifter, go ahead and shoot me," Sam repeated.

Despite his confident words, his chest heaved with heavy breaths, and drops of sweat broke out along his hairline. He couldn't stop his eyes from straying towards the weapon aimed at his chest.

So this was how it felt to be on the opposite end of the gun from his brother. Sam definitely owed Dean a better apology for the Rockford Asylum incident, he realized.

--If he ever got the chance. Dean steadied his hand, leveling the barrel straight at Sam's heart. His face took on that same confident, determined look he always wore whenever he stood behind a gun. Sam tensed involuntarily, recognizing that look, but he took a deep breath to calm himself.

But then Dean's hand started to shake again. "Change, goddammit," he said through gritted teeth.

"Huh?" Sam asked, startled.

"Dammit, be someone else," Dean demanded, louder this time, waving his gun threateningly. "Pastor Jim, a Playboy bunny--hell, turn into my mom!" Sam gaped helplessly at him, taken aback by the desperation in his voice. "I don't care--just _change_!"

As understanding dawned on him, Sam swallowed and blinked back the tears that suddenly started to burn in his eyes. They had already too much crap to deal with to now go through this.

He took a small step forward, painfully aware of the gun still aimed at his heart. "The first time I saw the shapeshifter in St. Louis, it looked just like you, Dean," he said to him. "It even knew everything you did." Sam tilted his head forward for emphasis, his eyes never leaving Dean's. "But I could still tell it wasn't you. And I had a chance to shoot it, to end it right there. But I couldn't. I couldn't shoot my own brother."

He paused, keeping Dean's gaze as his story sunk in. "Did you know that?" he asked pointedly.

Dean shook his head, not as an answer to Sam's question, but a denial of what Sam was implying. "I'm sure you—_Sam_ told me," he said.

"No, Dean, I didn't." He had been too embarrassed, and he knew Dean would only rag on him for letting himself be overtaken so easily when he had a gun on him. He rather let Dean think he'd been tricked. And if Dean didn't know about that incident, a psychic shapeshifter couldn't know either.

But Dean refused to be convinced, and Sam saw him swallow before a terse smirk twisted his lips. "So you're a creative son-of-a-bitch, so what?" he replied dismissively.

This was getting ridiculous. Sam just knew he was going to lose his mind.

"Dammit, Dean!" he cried, throwing his hands into the air in exasperation.

To Sam's surprise, a grin started to spread across Dean's face. "Hey, that was pretty good!" he replied brightly, gesturing at him with the gun. "You're getting closer to the real Sam."

Sam choked. "What!" he sputtered indignantly.

But inside, he let himself breath a sigh of relief. Even if Dean still didn't believe him, Sam now knew they'd passed a critical point and hit a kind of plateau.As long asDean was cracking jokes, everything would be fine.

It was time to get moving so they could both get out of there alive. Then they could sort this whole mess out.

So Sam rolled his eyes like he always did at Dean's jokes, and got down to business.

"Okay, I'm going to pick the lock off your handcuffs, alright?" he told him. He indicated Dean's hand with a nod. "Look, you still have the gun. You can shoot me if I do anything funny."

"See, that's how I know you're not really Sam," Dean replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Sam hasn't done anything 'funny' his whole life."

Sam gave him a long look and thought maybe he should smack him. But instead, he just shrugged and stepped towards the metal pipe.

"I don't know," he said lightly. "That girl Jennie thought it was pretty funny when I replaced all your band posters with _Saved by the Bell_." He grinned as he grabbed the handcuff around Dean's wrist. Even ten years later, he remembered the expression on his brother's face the moment he saw Screech and A.C. Slater plastered all over his bedroom walls.

"That was _not_ funny," Dean protested, but the corners of his lips were twitching. Sam grinned back at him and nodded. It was definitely funny.

But then suddenly Dean's face paled and he dropped his head. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice tired again.

Sam sighed, feeling his heart sink. _You started it,_ he wanted to say. _I thought we were getting somewhere good._

"Because I'm your brother," he replied instead, fingering the paperclip in his hand into position.

Despite the frustration gripping his chest, Sam reminded himself that the situation wasn't nearly as bad as he feared it would be. So far, he hadn't had to jump straight into a fight and save his brother from the clutches of an evil madman. This monster of the week wasn't even home.

Hell, if Sam hurried, maybe they could avoid the shapeshifter altogether - or at least hold off the confrontation until later. And God, that would be such a relief. All he had to do was pick the lock and get Dean outside and Sam could somehow prove he was his brother.

In fact, all he needed was show Dean his bags in the car, or even call Elizabeth.

With a start, Sam felt his pockets, but then he remembered he'd shoved his cell phone into one of his bags because the batteries were dead. "Hey, you have your cell phone?" he asked. "Call Lt. Stevens, she'll tell you."

Dean's answer was quick and annoyed. "You took it, remember?"

Sam groaned to himself. He should have figured. Wasting no more time, he angled the metal cuff and slid the paperclip into the lock. He wasn't as quick or as experienced as Dean, but even so, Dean would be free in no time. Even if he heard the shapeshifter come home that very instant, he could have the lock picked before George ever made it down to the basement.

As Sam fiddled with the handcuffs, he was aware of the gun pointed at his side - but it wasn't a problem for him. As long as he remained calm and steady, Dean wouldn't shoot. And after a lifetime of intense situations, Sam knew how to stay focused under pressure.

Yet, for some infuriating reason, he was still having trouble with the lock. His hands weren't shaking, but he couldn't get enough control for the precision he needed. Sam took in a deep breath and tried again. As much as he wanted to hurry, he told himself there was no immediate need to rush.

But he was distracted, and it took him a few minutes to realize why. His ears heard it before his mind could process it as something more than just background noise. The dog, Sandy, had started barking again.

And as soon as Sam heard it, he couldn't ignore it. The sound was muffled, distant, but it vibrated through his skull, and he kept finding his hands stopping mid-action, and he had to concentrate to force them back to work.

"Getting nervous there, Georgie?" Dean taunted.

Sam barely heard him over the snarling, barking dog. The dog had gone insane, he realized, and it was taking him with it. The noise pierced through his eardrums straight into his brain, and his hands jerked with each bark, making it impossible to work the locking mechanism.

"That god_damn_ dog," he cursed to himself as he forced his hands steady. He just wanted to get out of there, it was that simple. But the barking refused to stop stabbing him in his ears.

Sam's hands dropped away from the handcuffs and he stalked out of the tiny room, over to the window that hung on the opposite wall. The barking grew clearer the closer he walked towards the sound, and he could hear how it was growing more and more harsh. Sandy was barking so ferociously, it sounded as if he was about to choke on his own throat. And when Sam finally saw the dog through the window, he realized Sandy was straining so hard against his leash that he was slowly strangling himself.

But instead of yapping at a neighbor or passerby, the dog was straining towards his own house. Sam followed the dog's direction just in time to see a man slip through the front door.

Sam gasped, jumping in alarm. "Alice!"

"Who's Alice?" Dean asked from his position back behind him. But Sam's mind was running too quickly for him to catch the question.

The way the dog was acting, that man had to have been George – but rather than coming home, he went into his neighbors' house instead. Which meant Sam had enough time to unlock Dean and get out of there before being discovered.

Even as he was thinking, Sam turned around and quickly dashed back towards Dean. "Dammit!" he shouted angrily as he hurried into the side room where Dean was held. He didn't want this.

Back in St. Louis, when the shapeshifter went after Rebecca, every second of delay meant one more second of torture Rebecca had to endure. If they had waited any longer to call the police, she could have been killed. If Dean had arrived any later, Sam would have had the life choked out of him.

Sam couldn't hesitate now, either.

During a fair fight, the two Winchesters were almost evenly matched. But it wasn't a fair fight, and Sam, with two healthy arms and a moment of surprise, took the gun away from Dean within seconds.

In exchange, he immediately shoved the paperclip into his hand. Dean, after all, had always been faster at picking locks. "Next door!" Sam told him just before racing away.

"Hey!" Dean shouted at his back as Sam pounded up the stairs, two at a time. "You stay away from her! Or I'll--" But Sam was already too far away to hear the rest of his threat. The hunt was here.

* * *

_Gee, a Winchester holding another Winchester at gunpoint? What are the odds?_

_Please review!_

_I'm hoping the next chapters will explain most everything, but if anything is unclear or confusing, just let me know. _


	29. Chapter 29: ADDED June 09

I am so sorry this took so long! I thought I could just whip out this chapter because I had it all planned out - but it kept coming out dry and overcooked.

And now I've stared at it so long I can't even see straight - so let me know if you find any major errors, continuity and plot holes, or any general problems.

_Previously, on When Our Minds Betray Us (Chapters 24-28):_

_After Dean confesses he was the one responsible for Sam's memory loss, he calls the voodoo priestess to reverse the spell. The effects of the spell knock Sam out for 24 hours, but when he wakes up, all of his memories are back. Another fight erupts because Sam is upset and Dean knows it, and so Dean buys Sam a ticket back home to Stanford and leaves him at the bus station before taking off for a shapeshifter in Tulsa._

_At the station, Sam has plenty of time to calm down and focus on his newly-revealed memories, and he flashes back to the week nearly a year ago when they finally battled the Demon they'd been looking for - a fight that left Dean with a near-fatal wound. A guilt-ridden John fled almost immediately, leaving Sam to take care of his healing brother. But despite Sam's protests, Dean dove straight back into hunting, and tensions between the two brothers only intensified until a desperate Sam made one too many mistakes in a hunt against a goatman and nearly got himself killed. The fight afterwards between the brothers was brutal, ultimately driving Dean to make the decision to erase Sam's memories._

_Jumping back to present time, Sam leaves the bus station to research the shapeshifter he knew Dean to be hunting. He calls on their friend Elizabeth to drive him to Tulsa, and once there, he finds Dean locked up in the basement. Sam has to convince Dean he's really Sam, and not the shapeshifter - but before he could succeed, Sam spots the real shapeshifter entering the home of the lady next door. Leaving Dean with a paperclip to unlock himself, Sam rushes out to save the woman._

(Whew)

* * *

The instant Sam entered through the unlocked front door, the sound of shouting filled his ears. An argument, coming from upstairs. The house rumbled with the noise, but the voice shouting was too deep for Samto make out any words. As he crept closer to the stairs, his head tilted towards the sounds, he heard Alice shriek in response. 

"No! No! I don't believe this!" she screamed. "How-how could you—_why_? You goddamn bastard!"

By then, now at the bottom of the stairwell, Sam was close enough to hear the other man, whose voice had raised another octave. "Maybe if you weren't so damn _fat_--" he shouted back at her. "And _God_, your voice! It's like a screeching cat in heat!"

Sam slowly climbed the staircase, taking one step at a time as he used the railing to cling to the wall, careful to not let the wood creak underneath his foot. He kept his ears trained on the noises above him, and in the back of his mind, he wondered if he had made a mistake. Maybe Alice's husband had come home early, and Sam was really eavesdropping on a private matter. Already he was feeling guilty hearing those sharp insults the man was lobbing at her.

"_What_? What the hell is wrong with you?" Alice's tone had taken a desperate edge to it, so despairing Sam wanted to lunge right in there to put a stop to it, and at the same time, run far away from the near-stranger's intimate wounds that were suddenly bared before him. "Why are you doing this?" she went on, stuck somewhere between a plea and a demand.

"Because I'm sick of it all! I'm sick of _you_!" As Sam reached the top of the stairs, he could now pinpoint the voices, which came from behind a closed door at the end of the short hallway. "She was a _great_ lay, Allie."

Sam felt his cheeks burn, just for her sake. From behind the door, he could hear Alice falter, just as shocked by his vicious attack. "W-what?"

"Of course, anyone would be next to a cold fish like you," he spat back at her. "But Cindy…she was _good_. Hot. _God_." Sam grimaced, knowing that definitely wasn't something he should have heard. But the more acid the man threw at Alice, the more Sam started to believe he couldn't reallybe her husband. Alice hadn't struck him as someone who'd been emotionally abused, and the man hadn't been there long enough for the argument to have escalated so far. Instead, this guy, this monster, came out swinging.

His resolution slowing firming, Sam crept down the hallway as the man inside ranted on. "And it's not just the sex. She actually makes me _laugh_, makes me feel like I've never felt before-"

Sam didn't want to be there, he realized sharply. This was his first hunt back - his first real hunt in which he was armed knowing the things he'd known all of his life. Familiar feelings he hadn't felt in over a year coursed through his veins and forced his heart to hammer. All of his knowledge, experiences, training flew at him, condensing into an intense point in the center of his chest. It filled him with anticipation and dread.

"Tom…" By now, Alice's voice had dissolved into almost a whimper, a desperate protest. "I thought—I thought you loved me."

Sam couldn't make out the words in Tom's deep rumbling tone. He carefully leaned his head against the closed door, making sure he didn't accidentally bump it. He needed to judge the situation before he charged in, and he used the sounds of their voices to place their positions as he planned his attack.

"…for a long time now," the man was saying. He seemed to be closer to the door, to Sam, so it should be fairly easy to tackle him. His voice continued, "But I've got another surprise."

"What?" Alice asked, startled, and Sam frowned with alarm, wondering if he should charge in before Tom could pull something.

And then the door in front of Sam flung open, and Sam stumbled inwards from the sudden lack of support. He heard Alice gasp from across the room as he fell to the ground, anda red-haired man bent low over him.

"What's going on?" Alice asked from behind Sam's back, out of sight. Neither man bothered to answer her.

Sam's hand, the one grasping the gun, landed beside his head, and Sam quickly tried to pull it away. But the man stopped him, pressing his foot against Sam's wrist, instantly immobilizing it. Sam tugged at the pressure and rolled towards him so he could use his other arm to pull the man's legs out from under him.

But the man dodged his move, placing a swift kick into Sam's ribs. Sam grunted, his body curling against the pain as the other man reached down and scooped the gun from Sam's helpless fingers. He tucked it into his jeans, so quick and discreetly Sam wondered if Alice would have noticed. Then the man held his free hand out as if to help him up while at the same time, leaning down close to Sam's head.

"Your brother made the same mistake," the man whispered into his ear. "Don't you know you can't sneak up on a psychic?"

Then he grabbed Sam's hand and Sam had no choice to follow as he was hauled to his feet. He managed to choke back a groan as his ribs twinged with pain, but he couldn't stop the grimace that twisted his face.

The other man fixed his grin into Sam's glare. "Hello, _Sam_," he greeted smugly.

"Sam?" Alice sputtered, recognition flashing across her face. She took a step backwards as her eyebrows furrowed in alarm. "What's going on here? How do you know him?"

"I don't," Sam replied lowly.

"Oh, I know Sam _real_ well," the shapeshifter interjected cheerfully.

Sam gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes, but before he could say anything, Alice cried out. "What the hell happened to you? Did you get in a _fight_?"

And then Sam remembered his nose, throbbing still in the center of his face. He knew it would look mean and bloody, and he doubted explaining that his own brother hit him would help him seem less dangerous. "Look, Alice," he said quickly, holding his hands up before she could grow any more suspicious. "This isn't the man you know."

Alice shot a glare at the redheaded man. "Yeah, no kidding," she said bitterly. Sam shook his head quickly.

"No, I mean, he's not your husband."

The woman looked at him sharply. "What do you mean, he's not my husband?"

"Of course I'm her husband," George added, giving Sam a smirk. As if to demonstrate, he took a step towards Alice. Sam moved closer in a gesture of protection, and at the same time, Alice stepped away from her pseudo-spouse. The three of them formed a triangle, Sam with his back to the door, Alice near the far corner, and the shapeshifter near the side ofa four-poster bed and edging closer to the middle of the room--trying to wedge himself between Sam and Alice.

Sam quickly lunged forward, but George immediately retaliated, swinging his arm up to level the gun at Sam. "Don't. Move."

Alice gasped, one hand flying to her mouth while the other stretched out before her. "Oh, my God," she exclaimed breathlessly. "Where'd you—"

"This little toy is Sam's. He wanted to attack us, dear." Sam's eyes widened and then narrowed angrily and he took a step closer.

"S-Sam...?" Before Sam could respond, George released the safety with a _click_., ripping a small shriek from Alice. "Oh, God! Please, don't—_Tom_--"

"_He's not Tom_," Sam told her. He spared her a glance, trying to convince her with his eyes, hoping she would pick up on his sincerity. He wasn't the one she needed to fear.

But then a flash of movement caught his eye, and that's when he noticed the small mirror hanging on the wall behind her.

He could see himself, could see the tired determination in his own eyes, could see the gray bags that hung underneath them. His nose was swollen and dark, and blood had crusted underneath his nostrils.

But next to his own reflection, instead of a burly, red-haired man in a blue pullover, he saw a skinny man with thinning dark hair, wearing a buttondown shirt with a typical red plaid pattern. Although the Tom in the room was bare-handed, in the mirror, his hands were covered in surgical gloves – to prevent fingerprints, Sam figured.

Dean's words came back to him then--something about a mental projection. This shapeshifter didn't actually change physically, Sam realized, he just changed others' perceptions of him, somehow controlling the image he projected of himself, down to his clothes. But the mirror - just as Sam and Dean had discovered on numerous hunts - reflected his true appearance.

"What are you talking about?" Alice demanded, pulling Sam back from his thoughts. He could tell she was growing frantic as her eyes flicked between Sam and the gun in her husband's hand.

"Look!" Sam told her, nodding at the mirror. "Look at his reflection!"

He could tell she didn't want to, that she didn't believe him, but she twisted her head anyway, her confusion winning over her distrust. And then she gasped out loud.

"What the hell!" she exclaimed, swiveling around to look back at the red-haired man. Then she looked back at the mirror. "But that—Tom—you look like George!" Sam could see her frown in the reflection. "Only bald," she added, her forehead crinkling. "And with a big nose."

She turned back around, looking between Sam and the shapeshifter. "What the _hell_!"

"Alice, he _is_ George," Sam explained in a hurry. He'd been hoping George would look too, giving Sam the chance to attack, but the man never wavered, and now the fear rose frantically inside Sam knowing how much danger he and Alice were now in. If Sam could force George's attention on himself, if he could stand in his way, maybe that would be enough cover for Alice. "You have to get out of here, you have to call—"

But movement from the shapeshifter cut him off as George suddenly turned the gun on Alice, forcing a choked scream from the woman. "She's not going anywhere," he stated darkly.

"You let her go," Sam demanded, on the verge of rushing forward. But the shifter only smirked defiantly at him, daring Sam to move any further.

Alice spoke up from her corner, slowly straightening from her cowered position. "G-George? Is that really you?" she asked him, her voice shaky and harsh. She pressed herself against the wall, leaning closer to get a better look. Her eyes raked over his features and traveled down to the gun he held in his hand.

"You got me," he replied, his eyes still locked on Sam.

"But—those things you said to me…"

Sam turned to her, a sense of alarm rising inside him as he watched her eyes narrow and she took a defiant step forward. "What kind of freak _are _you?"

George's response was instant and violent. He lashed out, lunging at her before Sam could react, picking her up by her waist and throwing her against the wall. Her head slammed back against the mirror, instantly cracking it into a spiderweb of pieces and jarring it loose from its hook. It followed her body as she toppled to the ground in a heap, the ornate frame knocking against her head, showering her and the floor with glass shards. She didn't move.

Sam leapt forward to help her, but the gun in George's hand quickly stopped him, waving him back to his original position.

The shifter focused his darkened gaze on Sam. "She's such a bitch," he said. "I can't wait to dip my hands in her blood."

Flashes of St. Louis jumped into Sam's mind, images of women tied to chairs and bled. He'd seen enough crime scene photos, he heard enough details from Becky, he'd come face-to-face with that shifter's own mental sickness – he knew what evil men like George were capable of.

If the gun hadn't been pointed straight at him, Sam would have jumped at him right then. Instead, he was forced to take a deep breath to calm himself. He'd just have to wait until he could catch him off--

"Try it," the shifter taunted. "I'll know of any 'surprise' attack the instant it enters your brain."

George smiled slickly at him and used his free hand to pet the barrel of his gun. Sam knew he was trapped, and George did too, and several long, still moments made it clear he had no intention of moving and changing that. So Sam stood across from him in a rigid stance, not moving except for the heavy breathing that made his nostrils flare. A heavy silence weighed on the air as the two men considered each other.

A heartbeat later, Sam found himself staring into Jessica's blue eyes.

Though outwardly he kept himself from flinching, the sudden change sent him reeling. There was no transformation, no molting, and even though Sam knew he should have suspected that, the suddenness took him off guard. Unlike the St. Louis shifter, George could change his image in an instant, and Sam wasn't prepared.

It didn't help that George chose Jessica. Sam's heart wedged itself somewhere at the base of his throat as he stared at the warm, breathing, three-dimensional woman he'd given his heart to only a few years ago.

The shifter tilted her head, causing her blonde curls to cascade over her right shoulder, the hair sliding away to reveal her pale left one. She blinked up at him with wide, doe eyes.

"Neat trick, huh?" said Jessica's soft voice.

Sam glared at her image, clamping his jaw. "You're not going to get to me."

"I can copy any memory from your mind," the shifter went on, and Sam found himself staring at Jessica's full lips and the way they shaped and caressed each word slipping from her mouth. "Do you remember what I said that night on the rooftop?"

His stomach twisted deep in his gut, and he found himself inadvertently echoing Dean's word's from the basement. "Stop it," he gritted. "I'm not playing."

"You know, I can take any image I want."

Sam realized his hands were shaking, so he gripped them into tight fists. The fake Jessica was still pointing his own gun at him, and that was enough to anchor him in reality. He ignored her eyes and her lips and stared at her .45.

"I can even be dead Jessica."

And then suddenly Jessica was gray. Her blue lips parted slightly, and her eyes darkened. Her white dress turned into a nightgown, revealing long, shapely, ashen limbs, and a bloody gash sliced across her middle. Sam wanted to look away, needed to look away, but he also needed to keep his eye on his enemy. And Jessica, this fake, twisted image of Jessica, was an enemy who could shoot him the moment he averted his gaze.

"You're the only man I've ever loved, Sam." Sam was powerless to block the sound of Jessica's voice as it snaked through his ears. She pressed a pale hand against her abdomen, coating her long fingers in red. "And I died for it."

"You bastard," Sam hissed, unable to take a full breath.

And then Jessica laughed, but it was too deep, too mocking, to be hers.

"I'm going to kill you," Sam told the shifter.

"This is fun," Jessica said. "God, I love this. I love the look on your face, the thoughts running through your head. How about this one?" Sam's head gave an involuntary jerk when the Jessica's shape was replaced with his father's bulk.

John's darker eyes glinted at him. "You know, I usually don't go after guys whose lives are already screwed to hell," he drawled. "But I gotta admit, I'm still getting the same rush."

Sam stared back defiantly. "The thing is, I know you're not real."

"Oh, I'm very real," John replied. "And you know that better than anyone, don't you? Isn't that the problem?"

Sam didn't have a response to that – he didn't _need_ a response, he realized - so he just set his jaw and glared.

The shifter was only taunting him, but that was the frustrating part. Sam's fists had started to ache, shaking from the rush of adrenaline that Sam had no outlet for. Until George moved, until he tried something physical rather than mental, Sam couldn't do anything. He was unarmed, and pinned to place by the gun that never strayed from his chest. Something needed to change.

Where was Dean?

George jumped on that thought the instant it went through Sam's head. "Yeah, where is your brother?" he taunted.

But despite his cocky tone, Sam knew George wouldn't know either. Just as Missouri had told Dean back in Kansas, psychics can't pull information straight out of thin air. Dean could show up any moment. "Or _maybe _he's still trying to pick the lock," the shifter drawled. "His arms are pretty messed up, don't you think?"

Sam pushed away the doubt George tried to slip into his mind. "Why did you come here anyway?" Sam asked him. "Why did you just leave Dean in your basement?"

"Because I didn't know you'd be here to set him free," he replied, exasperated. His tone became dark, taunting, and he shifted forward as if he had a secret to tell. "Dean was sure he'd never see you again," Sam heard his father say.

Sam flexed his jaw and didn't answer. He's faced a shapeshifter before. He didn't give in then, and he wasn't about to now.

George, though, with his face suddenly twisting in anger, seemed unconcerned with Sam's silence, too caught up by a rant. "Your brother is such a goddamn pain in the ass! You know that?" he exploded. Sam snorted and glared at the same time. Yeah, he knew that. But some people – things – deserved it. "Thinks he's so damn cocky." He _is_ cocky, Sam thought, though he didn't bother to correct him.

Sam kept his expression impassive as a satisfied sneer spread across George's face. "He was ready to die, you know. Maybe he didn't want to, but he was ready for it." Sam thought maybe his face cracked then, but he quickly hardened it back into a glare. "After all, I'm not just some mindless monster or obsessed spirit," George went on, his voice once again bragging. "I'm a shapeshifting, mind-reading _person_. And Dean, he knew how tricky that would be. I'm a smart guy, Sammy."

"That's debatable," Sam snorted. The retort came easy, and he meant it. The guy had several distinct advantages, but he obviously couldn't be too clever. Three people he framed were cleared of guilt because he messed up. George was sloppy, and Sam only needed to wait for him to mess up.

George's glare darkened at once. "You're not nearly scared enough," he told him snidely.

"I'm not worried," Sam replied, lifting a shoulder.

"Your brother was worried!" George shot back, his voice suddenly rising. The abrupt, careening way he swung his emotions left Sam dizzy. "He was so scared of me he went with a freakin' back-up plan! You know, just in case he didn't _make_ it." Then his lips twisted into a triumphant smirk. "Too bad for him, Fred came back to work a day early."

Before Sam could ask what the other man was talking about, he was suddenly looking at an older, graying man. Fred was a mailman or a post office clerk, judging by the postal uniform he wore. Sam still didn't know what that had to do with anything.

This new, older George slipped his hand into a pocket Sam's eyes claimed wasn't there. But Sam couldn't trust his eyes, not when George could change his entire look down to the clothes he wore. He really wasn't wearing that uniform, Sam told himself, it was only some type of mental glamour tricking Sam into thinking he were.

From the unseen pocket, the shifter pulled out a handful of white and brown. Sam shifted threateningly, but George ignored his useless warning, taking a couple of steps forward towards Sam's side, making sure Sam didn't miss the gun he still held in his hand. Then he tossed the handful on the dresser next to Sam. The objects he threw skidded across the surface.

Careful to keep one eye trained on the shifter, Sam twisted quickly to look at the objects fanned out across the bureau top. Mail, which explained the postal worker look. Two letters and a small, squarish package. They looked harmless, insignificant, and he couldn't figure out why the shifter wanted him to see it.

The back of his mind knew they had something to do with Dean, but the air still escaped his lungs in an abrupt hiss when he recognized Dean's handwriting printed across the fronts.

The first envelope was addressed to their father's P.O. Box, and Sam's breath hitched when he saw his own name on the second one. Dean, who Sam had never seen compose anything, had sent them letters – or tried to, before they were intercepted by George. But the small package, to Sam's surprise, had Elizabeth Stevens' name on it, and Sam didn't see any reason why Dean would be writing to her.

George was all too happy to explain. "He wanted you to know where to find me—you know, after I would've killed him," he added, his voice slick and wet.

Sam turned from the envelopes to glare at the shifter, and George, who seemed to enjoy Sam's anger, cocked his shoulder and smirked at the younger Winchester. "But he couldn't exactly expect either of you to care enough to come, could he?" he pointed out. "So he sent a couple of silver bullets to your friend there, hoping she'd at least try. Kinda pathetic, doncha think? Relying on someone he barely knows, over his own family?" His words slipped through Sam's head, but he refused to acknowledge them.

But he didn't want to see Dean's handwriting anymore, he didn't want to see the image it inspired in his mind, of Dean hunched over a hotel desk, scribbling words he thought could be his last. Keeping one eye on the shifter, Sam slipped the two envelopes and the lumpy package off of the dresser and into his pocket,unwilling to give them up.

As George finished speaking, the smug look on his face suddenly disappeared. His hand shot out and slammed against a tall bedpost with a loud smack, sending a shock straight through Sam's chest. The sudden explosion of movement and noise startled him, and his whole body instantly tensed.

"He thinks he's so damn smart!" George spat. "Goddamn little punk! But he didn't outsmart me, Sam." He shook the gun at him as if it were an index finger. "You can't outsmart a _goddamn mindreader_. That's just so god-damn _stupid_! Who the hell does he think he is!"

He palm slammed against the bedpost again, shaking the entire bed frame. "So I have to go dig those out from the post office, waste an entire morning, just because your brother thinks he's so friggin' cute. And then I come home--and Alice here is standing in the kitchen window baking a goddamn cake for her husband!" George twisted his head around to spit at Alice's crumpled form.

"God, how disgusting is that! Like a goddamn Donna Reed! Only, _of course_ Alice makes money too, what with her little writing, because their lives are so sick and perfect." He turned back to Sam, his face strained and burning red. "Every god-damn morning Tom fixes her breakfast before he leaves. And every god-damn day she greets him on the front porch when he comes home."

He turned back to Alice, keeping his arm stretched in the air so the gun was still pointing at Sam. "It's _sick_!" he screamed at the unconscious woman. "You're 35 years old, not goddamn newlyweds!"

Sam wanted to slug him. His fists twitched, threatening to launch themselves for him. But he knew he couldn't risk getting shot, for his sake and Alice's. George turned to face him again.

"I was going to wait. Let Tom take the fall." The corner of his lip pressed up into his cheek and he squinted his right eye. "But after your brother's cute little stunt, I wanted to see her blood splattered on the walls."

Sam pressed his lips together and choked down a shudder. He'd forgotten just how much evil was out there. He could not let this man out of this room alive.

George continued, his eyes watching, waiting for Sam's reaction. "Lucky for me I have the murderer locked up in my basement."

His words hadn't even sunk in when suddenly Sam was staring at Dean's face. And to his horror, he realized he was seeing the same outfit he saw in the mirror--George's actual clothes. It wasn't until then, seeing it wrapped around Dean's form, that Sam realized why the plaid shirt had looked familiar. The shifter had stolen Dean's clothes.

"He'll be wearing her blood," George said in Dean's voice.

Sam almost lost it. But he knew George wanted a reaction, was digging for it, and he knew he could read it from Sam's mind anyway. So he bit on the curses rising in his throat and forced his fists to relax.

This guy was emotionally unstable, that much was certain. If he wanted any chance of outsmarting the man, Sam couldn't let himself get that way as well. Even as Sam thought those thoughts, he saw George's face twist with anger.

"I thought maybe I'd just let the cops arrest him, but really, that's no fun," George said, quickly cooling his features. "So I think I'll kill him first." He tilted his head and winked. "Self-defense, of course."

"You'll never get the chance," Sam told him in a harsh whisper.

A flicker of anger flashed across George's face again, but then his lips twisted into another smug sneer. "First I'll show him your body," he said. Sam responded with only a tight headshake. Never, he thought. That was never going to happen.

George went on heedlessly, ignoring – or maybe responding to - Sam's denial. "What do you think I should I tell him? That it was his fault, that he ruined your chances for a happy-ever-after because he was too stupid to know _his own brother_?"

He titled his head forward, his eyes trying to burn a hole into Sam's retinas. "Should I should tell him you died cursing his name?"

Sam stopped the outraged hiss before it could escape his throat. "He'd never believe you," he growled instead.

"C'mon, after what he did to you? I'm pretty sure he will."

Sam shrugged in reply, although the stiff tightness of the movement betrayed the intended effect. His words, however, were steady and confident. "Too bad you'll never get to find out."

"You know, I don't think I'll shoot you in the heart, or your head," George told him. "I don't want this to be a clean kill. I don't want this to be too…quick. I want you to _feel_ it." His voice tried to curl itself around Sam, tried to seduce him into fear. Despite his threat, his aim never faltered, never shifted from Sam's chest. If it had, Sam would have risked agunshot wound just to be rid of this monster.

Sam needed a plan, he needed to do something, he needed--

They both jumped when they heard the front door slam downstairs. Someone had just entered the house.While Sam felt awarm jab of hope and relief, alook of concentration flashed across George's face.

Sam started when George's hand slipped underneath the back of his shirt and came back out holding Dean's Glock He now had a gun in each hand, but before that even registered in Sam's head, George flipped the Glock around and extended it towards him. "Take it."

"The hell?" Sam demanded. He knew the shifter was up to something, and his mind screamed at him to not trust him. But his instincts screamed just as loudly – a gun was a gun, and Sam needed a weapon, whatever George was planning. So Sam swiped the gun from his hand and leapt backwards, immediately aiming the Glock at George's chest and cocking the hammer.

--and then the next thing Sam knew, he was looking into the same set of eyes he saw everyday in the mirror.

Before Sam could react to his double, George started to shout. "Dean! We're up here!" he called out in Sam's voice. "H--"

And then before Sam could do anything, the shifter cried out in pain. Startled, Sam leapt forward, gaping in alarm as George gasped and grunted out loud.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam demanded, his eyes stretched wide.

To his horror, the skin above George's right eye split open, and blood appeared dripping down the side of his face. His nose swelled and darkened, matching Sam's, and a bruise spread across his jaw.

Then, with a grin, his white teeth contrasting with a bloody split lip, George crouched down in front of Alice, keeping his back to her. As Sam watched helplessly, he took on a defensive position, his free arm stretched out beside him as if blocking the woman from harm.

Then the hand holding Sam's .45 relaxed, and Sam's eyes followed tensely as George brought the gun towards himself and then tucked it into the back of his jeans.

"What the hell?" Sam demanded again, his gun following George's new position as a sickening feeling blossomed in his stomach. From the other end of steel barrel, George stared up at him, his eyebrows raised and pushed together, and Sam recognized the puppy dog eyes Dean always complained about. He panted heavily as the blood slid down his temple.

Sam heard Dean's footsteps pound up the stairs as he raced towards them. "Your brother just made a trunk stop," George explained in a smooth whisper that contrasted sharply with his worried expression..

Of course. A trunk stop - which meant Dean would be armed. Sam should have been relieved, but as Dean's footsteps drew near, Sam found himself staring helplessly at the shifter's vulnerable stance and battered face, seeing a copy of his own eyes shine with wounded defiance.

George was unguarded; his gun was tucked away. As taken aback as he was, Sam realized this was his chance to shoot. He had the chance to end this now.

George interrupted just as Sam started to apply pressure to the trigger. "Do you think he'll ask questions?" he asked curiously from his crouched position. "Or is he the type who shoots first?"

* * *

Next chapter, coming right up... 


	30. Chapter 30: ADDED June 09

_Part Two of my 06/09/06 update. _

* * *

If it had been a school test, Sam would guess that Dean probably would ask questions first, if only because his brother was involved. But it wasn't a school test and Sam couldn't afford to be wrong. 

Sam felt his blood rise and his heartbeat accelerate. Just before Dean burst through the door, Sam shouted out to him. "Don't, Dean, it's a trap!"

Dean burst through the door anyway, just as Sam knew he would, but at least with Sam's warning he wouldn't jump to action without thinking.

And he didn't. Instead, he quickly got into position where he could see the entire room from behind the safety of his own gun. Despite the efficiency of his moves, Sam could see the way his breath caught in his throat when he saw the two Sams standing before him.

"_Sam_?" he gasped. Both Sams nodded, and Sam saw a flicker of ill emotion flash across his face before it was wiped away, replaced with a business-only expression.

Sam felt his chest swell with relief. His brother was here. "I _told_ you that was me back there," he added, almost petulantly.

"Hey, what was I supposed to think?" Dean complained with typical Dean fashion, increasing Sam's relief. "It didn't help that you suddenly got angry and started yelling some chick's name before running out of the basement like some madman."

"Yeah, because I saw this bastard running for her," George explained indignantly, gesturing at Sam.

Startled, Sam rolled his eyes at him. "Oh come off it, that was _you_."

"Was not!" George replied, looking shocked and offended.

Shaking off his annoyance, Sam turned to his brother and watched anxiously as Dean assessed the situation. He saw the way Dean was evaluating their positions, studying their features and any dangers he needed to be aware of. He ran his eyes over each of them, flicking back and forth between the two, searching both of them.

Then Dean's eyes rolled upwards and he let out a groan. "Ah jeez, Sammy, what kind of mess did you get yourself into _this _time?"

Sam's jaw dropped. "_What_?" he sputtered.

"Hey, I wasn't the one who got himself handcuffed to metal pipe," the other Sam added, just as indignant. Sam turned to glare at him, but George – to Sam's deep frustration - copied his movement exactly.

"One pair of matching bookends, different as night and day." Dean let out a long-suffering sigh as he waved his gun, alternating between the two Sams. "All right, so how am I supposed to know which one of you is really Sam?"

"I am," they said at once. Sam rolled his eyes, but he refused to look to see if George did the same.

"O-kaay then," Dean went on, gesturing at them with his gun. "Which one of you can change shape?"

They twisted the same angle to send him matching glares.

When he caught the shifter moving in tandem with him, Sam immediately turned to him, severely wishing he could slap his face off. And from the sight he was met with, he knew George decided to mirror his own impatient expression. It reminded him of that stupid game Dean used to play when they were littlein whichhe would repeat Sam's every word and movement. It was annoying then, and a hell of a lot more frustrating now.

Dean looked between the two of them and let out a sigh. The change in his tone was slight, but Sam still heard the stress in his voice. "You're not even supposed to _be_ here, Sam. What the hell happened to the bus?"

"I told you, I changed my mind," Sam told him impatiently.

Dean shifted his eyes to him, and Sam saw his eyebrows twitch with constrained emotion. "But…why?"

"_Because_," the shifter interjected, drawing Dean's attention. "I couldn't leave things the way they were. I needed to talk to you--chick-flick moment and all."

Sam had to choke back his frustration. Hearing his own voice come out so soft and earnest, Sam realized why he was able to get strangers to trust him on each hunt. But he couldn't let Dean trust the shifter, no matter how much he sounded like Sam. "I had the chance to think things over, and there were some things I needed to say to you," Sam added, desperately wanting Dean to sense something in his voice, to realize he was Sam.

But Dean only tilted his head, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as he waited for him to continue.

Sam frowned, suddenly and intensely hating this. This was not the way he wanted to talk with Dean. "I just—I just wanted to know why," he struggled to explain. "And I wanted _you_ to know why."

"We were just so…screwed up, Dean," the other Sam went on, his tone just as breathless and determined as Sam's. "But we don't have to be. I don't want to lose my brother. Not again."

Sam's gut twisted painfully. He didn't want to hear his words coming out of George's mouth. He didn't want _Dean _to hear those words coming from George's mouth. He came back so he could have a heart-to-heart with his brother, so they could really duke it out—and he didn't want that to degrade into some game to see which Sam could out-Sam the other.

"C'mon, Dean," he pleaded, trying to catch Dean's eye. "Don't make me do this here."

But his brother's expression hardened, and he looked away, down at the floor. Sam felt a flash of anger and irritation, exasperated that once _again_ he couldn't convince Dean he was his brother. "Don't make me do this here," he repeated.

"Don't turn this into a competition," George said, quickly echoing Sam's desperation. "I'm trying to--"

"It's just not--"

"It's _personal_, Dean."

"There has to be another way," Sam finished, wishing it didn't sound so much like a whine.

After a tense, quiet moment, Dean finally looked up, his face impassive as he eyed the two of them.

Then he let out a low whistle. "All right, that didn't work," he said with a slight smirk. He cocked his head and gave it a dramatic jerk. "Time for the lightning round."

"Huh?" Sam choked. Beside him, he saw George shift anxiously.

Dean nodded once but instead of explaining, he immediately pressed forward, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "What was my first car?" he asked them.

"'67 Chevy Impala," Sam told him with a frown. This was his new plan? Now they were playing who knows Dean better?

"It was Dad's," George added, and Sam had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his anger in check.

"First hunt?"

"A ghost in Missouri," George said quickly.

Sam grunted in annoyance. "You were nine," he jumped in, refusing to be outdone.

"Boxers or briefs?"

They both rolled their eyes. "Boxer-briefs."

They set into a quick rhythm as Dean fired questions at them. Sam noticed the speed Dean forced them into, and it worried him. Was he testing them, to see who knew the answers the quickest? Did he think the shifter, needing to "read" the answers first, would be slower? Sam tried not to panic, but he wasn't confident he would know all the answers right away and pass Dean's test.

"Favorite band?"

"Led Zeppelin," Sam replied instantly.

"Birthday."

"August 12th, 1979," snapped George before Sam could open his mouth. Dean's plan sucked.

"Coffee."

George answered first. "Two sugars--"

"--No cream," Sam finished for him.

"Who's the black private dick who's the sex machine with all the chicks?"

Their frowns were identical. "Shaft," they replied in unison, and Dean's face split into a wide grin.

Then without missing a beat, he asked, "Favorite color."

Suddenly, Sam blinked and stumbled. He felt blood drain from his face and his stomach fall when he realized his mind was blank. "Black?"

The word had barely left his mouth when George jumped in with triumphant glee. "Silver," he answered confidently.

Even as his heart jumped into his throat, Sam immediately started to protest. "Oh, come on, Dean!" he complained. "That's not even a real co-"

But then he saw the flicker of alarm that swept across George's face – and at the same time, in one swift motion, Dean spun and aimed his gun at him.

As Sam stared at the scene, trying to readjust to the sudden shift in tension, realization flooded through him. Of course the shifter, reading Dean's mind, would know all the answers - but the real Sam wouldn't. Dean had been waiting for that, for Sam to get one wrong. He was just lucky George had been too cocky to figure it out.

"What are you going to do? Shoot me?"the shifterasked with narrowed eyes, recovering quickly. "You know those aren't silver bullets in there."

"It'll slow you down," Dean replied. "Then Sammy here-"

He bit off the end of the last word, the rest of his sentence left unspoken. Without any warning, George had suddenly morphed right before their eyes. He changed into himself, Sam realized – or at least the modified version, judging by his full head of hair. As Sam and Dean started at his shifting features, he used the distraction to whip out the gun from the back of his jeans. Sam could sense Dean on the very edge of shooting, that he had all but depressed the trigger in reaction to George's sudden movement.

But the shifter was half an instant quicker, aiming the gun at Sam before Dean ever got the chance.

"It won't slow me down enough, will it?" he pointed out as he cocked the hammer.

Even though he wasn't a mind reader, even Sam could hear the curses running through Dean's head. Sam stared into George's modified face, purposefully ignoring the gun pointed at his chest. "Give it up, George," he said. "You're outnumbered two-to-one, all right? Just put it down, and no one will get hurt. _You _won't get hurt."

"Yeah, and what if I decided I like being armed?"

"Then I'll make sure you can't hurt anyone else."

"So, you're going to shoot me?" George asked. "I'd like to see you try." He cocked his head with mock curiosity. "Now, how does that work, Sam? How much time passes from the moment the thought enters your head to you pulling the trigger? A split second? Is that enough time for me to jump out of the way?"

"He won't miss," Dean said, and Sam couldn't deny the small rush of gratitude that filled him. Spurred by the boost of confidence, he shifted his stance and gave George his own cocky stare, with one raised eyebrow and lips that twisted up at the corners.

George was unfazed. "Even a few inches to the side, and you'll miss my heart," he replied smoothly. "So I shoot, you're dead, then I shoot your brother, because his gun won't work on me, and then I cut Alice's throat with the knife Dean is keeping in his boot."

His words caused Sam's heart to seize for a moment. But he couldn't falter. He knew he could fire off several rounds in mere milliseconds, and if he missed the first time, he would get him with the next.

George, of course, heard his thoughts. "What if I duck? Will your instincts draw the gun down? Will you be able to stop yourself from squeezing the trigger?"

Sam glanced down at the crumpled woman at George's feet and felt sweat trickle down his armpits. "I won't hit her," he said, hating that he was half-speaking to himself. "I'm good at this."

"You're rusty." George looked at Dean then, though he still spoke to Sam. "Your brother left you rusty. Unprepared. Until a couple of days ago, you didn't even know you could shoot a gun."

"But I know now," Sam replied. He briefly considered glancing at Dean, but he didn't.

"You're not going to shoot, are you, Sam?" George asked him confidently. "You don't want to kill me." Sam glared at him in response, refusing to answer, and the shifter went on. "You know too much what it's like."

Sam frowned and tilted his head. "What _what's_ like?" Dean snarled irritably, just as confused.

George kept his stare on Sam as he answered. "To be a freak."

Beside him, Sam heard Dean groan. Sam himself gritted his teeth and shook his head. He and Dean would joke and call themselves freaks, but they were nothing like George, nowhere near as demented.

Of course his thoughts were heard. George's entire face twitched and he narrowed his eyes. "Remember high school?" he asked sharply. "You _know_ what it's like to be the freak. To see the way others looked at you through the corners of their eyes, hear their whispers whenever they passed." Sam narrowed his eyes, but that seemed to energize the other man. "Remember when Lori van Dyke found that ten-inch blade in your backpack?"

"C'mon man, what the hell you going on about?" Dean asked. "Cut this you're-just-like-me crap."

Sam couldn't help but think of Lori, a cute brunette from tenth grade, and the way he found her, hunched over his forgotten bookbag one day at the end of school. She'd quickly straightened up, rising to her feet. Sam saw the horrified expression on her face and the knife dangling from her hand, and he instantly exploded at her, demanding to know what she had been doing with his stuff. She had only meant to put a note into his backpack when she found the knife Sam's father made him carry to school.

She didn't tell on him, at least not to the administration, but neither did she keep it to herself. By the next day, every student had heard and every student started treating him differently. Just as George had said, Sam saw their strange looks and averted stares and heard their whispers behind his back. When the Winchesters moved on a month later, Sam left no friends behind.

"Now imagine what it was like to know exactly what they were _thinking_," George said, his voice rising into a yell. "To hear their cruel, ugly thoughts every single time they looked at you! To be sitting in class, and even the damn teacher is laughing at your nose, or sneering at you just because—just because you're different!"

"You were in high school?" Dean asked, sounding surprised. George ignored him, his glare never leaving Sam.

"I grew up like that, hearing people's thoughts. Bombarded with their nasty judgments. It took me _five years_ of hard work and concentration to learn how to change my appearance. I developed these, these _powers_ all by myself, locked up in my room for hours on end."

"Had nothing better to do, huh?"

Once again, George refused to acknowledge him. "No one was _ever_ there for me. I was twenty before I could finally get people to look at me normally." His hand shot out against the bed again, slamming against the post. This time, used to his sudden outbursts, Sam didn't jump. "Goddammit, everything should have been better then! I even went on dates!"

"With real girls?" Dean asked, but George acted as if he didn't hear him. Maybe he didn't, the way he seemed to be frozen in a rant.

"Except--It never failed - those same nasty, heartless thoughts would start creeping into their minds. After a couple of minutes, or a couple of hours, whether I was on a date, or at the store - they would all start thinking I was a freak. That I was worthless. Like Alice!" he shouted suddenly, throwing his hand through the air at her. "They hadn't even lived next door to me for a whole day before she started calling me weird and creepy. What, she thinks she's _better_ than me?"

He spat at her again before turning back to Sam. "You can't change, Sam," he said, his voice low and dark. "No matter how hard you try, you're still a freak inside. Even Stanford didn't change that. Even your own brother erasing your memories, couldn't change that." Although he remained silent, out of the corner of his eye Sam saw Dean react physically, jerking his head, his stance surging forward even though his feet never left their spot.

Sam turned back to the raging shifter and sighed to himself.

"Just because you don't fit in with what other people consider _normal_, they act like you aren't even worth the time of day! Like you aren't even worth the shoes you walk in! And they just go around, thinking whatever they want, not even realizing just how heartless and cruel they consider their own fellow human beings!"

"People are so mean," Sam agreed, shaking his head slowly.

"Man, you're really desperate for company, aren't you?" Dean asked. Sam was so glad he was there beside him. "I guess even a freak with no redeeming qualities needs someone to talk to, huh?"

Sam pressed his lips together and cocked an eyebrow. "No, I think he's just trying to get me to feel sorry for him," he said. He smirked dryly. "And he's getting really _upset_ because he knows it's not working."

George reacted just as Sam thought he would. His face reddened and spit started to fly as he started ranting again. "You know what it's like! Walking around knowing you're _different_." He spat out the last word, his eyes narrowed into focused points. "No matter what you do - whatever_ Dean_ tries to do," he added for extra ammo. "--You can't escape."

Sam looked at him levelly. "Who said I want to?" he calmly asked.

George's eyes widened. "Oh, don't kid yourself, Sam!" he yelled, his voice loud and sharp. "You're just like me! You hate it just as much as I do!"

Sam glanced slowly over at his brother. He kept the look easy and casual, even though at his end, Dean was looking tense and a little pale. "Oh, I don't know about that..." Sam mused lightly.

"Of course you do!" George cried. "I can read your mind, remember?"

"Well, you must be reading wrong then." Sam creased his forehead, frowning thoughtfully. "You know, I think you're projecting."

George stiffened for a moment, his eyes boring into Sam's. "You know what, Sam? You're just a scared little boy."

"Maybe—No, wait, you're right," Sam quickly amended. "I do get scared sometimes. But that just tells me I'm normal. That I have people I care and worry about, that I haven't gone over the edge yet."

"But you flirt with that edge. And sometimes you cross it," George fought back snidely. "You know what that darkness is on the other side. You can taste its heat, you can feel its icy grip—admit it, it touches you just like it touches me."

Sam shook his head. "No," he said coolly. "Our darkness is different. I might be a freak, but I'm not sick, not like you. I'd never torture and kill anyone, just because I couldn't handle a little name-calling."

"_Shut up_!" George screamed at him. "_Goddammit_, shut UP! It's more than that, Sam! My life—everything about it was torture! Even my own damned parents looked at me weird!" Sam raised an eyebrow, watching as tears started to shimmer in the shifter's eyes as his cheeks burned red and a vein throbbed near his hairline. "Goddamn torture!" he shouted again, his voice breaking. "They all think they're so much better, with their happy little lives that don't mean a goddamn thing!"

"So you're a bitter son-of-a-bitch psycho, we get it," Dean said with a roll of his eyes. "You honestly think we're going to let you go?"

George rounded on him. "_They deserved what they got_!" he screamed.

"That's funny," Dean shot back with a smirk, not missing a beat. "Because we're here to give you what _you_ deserve."

"That's a riot, coming from you!" George spat at him, laughing harshly, even insanely. "Sam knows how hard it is to be a freak, but you—you know how much it _aches_ when people abandon you the moment you need them the most. You know _personally_ just how far a person will go when their _own loved ones_--"

Dean didn't let him finish, cutting him off with snarled words, and though Sam didn't know exactly what he was talking about, the shifter undoubtedly did. "Did your mother cry for you before you slit her throat?"

George reacted instantly, leaping forward with an enraged yell. He raised his gun into the air, not to shoot, but to strike him. Dean started to duck, almost cringing out of the way.

And not even a split second after George made his move, Sam squeezed the trigger. His aim was true, his reflexes were sharp, and his hands confident and ready.

But the gun clicked hollowly.

Sam tried again, and again. Each click vibrated straight through his heart. A sick feeling started to blossom at the bottom of his gut.

Yet, fortunately, the gun managed to stop George in his tracks. The instant the empty sound echoed through the room, the shifter halted, his arm frozen in mid-swing before he spun to face Sam. By the time he finished the movement, a wide, evil grin had completely replaced the outraged scowl.

"What did you think, Sam?" he asked with a snicker. "That I'd carry a weapon loaded with the only thing that could kill me?" His eyebrows went up into his forehead, and he tilted his head gleefully.

His heart hammering, Sam clutched the empty gun in his hands, but just as he started to pull his arm back, George was already gesturing with his .45. "You're not actually going to throw that at me, are you?" He started to laugh. "God, that was fun. You should see the way your nostrils are flaring!" He let out a long breath. "Whew! Thank God for that, I think I needed a little levity." He winked at Sam.

Sam suddenly wanted to scream at him, call him names and fill his chest with silver. But he'd just been denied that opportunity.

He couldn't believe he'd let himself get tricked—and this time should have been more obvious than back at the asylum, when Dean pulled the same thing.

"Sucks, doesn't it?" George asked him. "Thrown back into a hunt that wasn't even yours. And now look at you – you're stuck with a gun that's unloaded, and Dean's might as well be, as good as it'll do him."

Sam opened his mouth to respond, to argue with him, to show he really wasn't worried, even though the thoughts running through his head would betray him. But then he was distracted by movement out of the corner of his eye.

And just as he turned to it, a scream ripped through the air.

"Alice," Sam gasped. But even as he spoke, he saw George swing around towards her.

"You goddamn bitch!" he screamed. Sam saw the gun in his hand, and he froze for a panicked moment when he recognized his actions.

Whether he felt it or saw it, Sam knew Dean was already reacting. That was enough to spur Sam into action. On instinct, he understood that Dean, closer to the shifter, would disable George, and Sam would take care of Alice.

He dove forward, throwing himself between Alice and the gun to knock the woman back to the ground.

Three shots rang out. They happened in such quick succession Sam wasn't sure which one caused his right shoulder to explode with pain. Unable to stop his momentum, he fell to the ground on top of Alice, landing awkwardly on his side.

The entire scene lasted only an instant.

Sam quickly rolled over, his vision almost disappearing, and saw George standing over him. Two spots of blood were quickly expanding across his chest.

A weak look of betrayal had twisted his face. "You said they had to be silver..." he complained, his voice already slurring. And then he fell to his knees before collapsing completely.

"We were wrong," Dean told his body matter-of-factly.

Sam watched with dim fascination as George's hairline suddenly receded and his nose grew twice its size. Even his bulk disappeared as wiry muscles slimmed away to mostly flab. Without his mind to project his modified image of himself, they saw his real body. He wasn't a true shifter, Sam realized. Just a guy who developed his psychic powers into something more.

"How about that..." Sam whispered.

Dean jerked at his voice, flicking widening eyes down at Sam still on the ground, and Sam could see the blood drain from his face. "Oh, Jesus, _Sam_!" he gasped hoarsely, rushing forward.

Sam grunted as he felt Alice underneath and behind him slowly try to disentangle herself from his unresponsive limbs. Dean dropped to his knees beside him, his face stricken as he reached out for him. His hands gripped Sam's shoulders firmly, holding him steady as the woman slid out. "Sam—Sam—Are you okay?" he demanded unevenly as his eyes searched Sam's body. "God_dammit_."

"Is it really that bad?" Sam asked, wincing because his voice came out more raspy than he intended.

"No, no, of course not," Dean rushed to assure him. "You just have a frickin' hole in the middle of your body."

Your bedside manner sucks, Sam wanted to tell him.

"I'll—I'll call 9-1-1!" Alice said frantically somewhere above Sam. Her shadow quickly passed over him, and he knew she had run out of the room in search of a phone.

"Jesus, Sam, what were you thinking!" Dean cried the moment she left. Sam felt the fabric across his chest move, and he knew Dean was trying to get a better look at his injury. Sam bit his cheek, trying not to gasp at the prodding fingers. He didn't think the bullet had hit a lung, but then again, would he know? He felt fine though, didn't he?Just...weird.

"Dean," he said. "What George said back there—what I said—you need to know-"

"Shush, Sam, I don't even know what you're rambling about," Dean told him in a rush of words as he worked frantically above him.

Sam shook his head stubbornly, refusing to be dismissed. "About why I came back," he got out. Dean tore his gaze from hisinjury toglance at him.

"Oh. That,"he replied, pressing his hands down on Sam's chest. "Yeah, I wasn't paying attention."

Sam almost surged up, but Dean held him down. "What?" he bit out, incredulous.

Dean shrugged defensively. "Yeah, well, while the shifter was busy reading your mind, I was trying to think of a way out of the mess."

Sam went limp, his head rolling back so that it stared up at the ceiling. He almost laughed, but he didn't think his chest would let him.

"Hey! Al-Alice?" Dean shouted, his tone both urgent and uncertain as he called out for the woman he'd never been introduced to. When his call wasn't answered, he looked back down at Sam, his eyes shining. "Sam, I need...I need to get some towels," he said, and he stood up jerkily.

His hands were shiny and red, Sam noticed as his eyes followed Dean. He realized suddenly that blood was really a pretty shade of red, colorful and bright. Unless there was too much of it, he amended to himself - then it started to look black, even menacing. His undershirt probably looked black.

Just as Dean started to backtrack towards the door, Sam stopped him. "I wasn't going to leave," he said.

"Huh?" Dean stammered, freezing in his tracks. "Sam, _shhhh, _I'll be right ba-"

But then there was another presence in the room, and Sam knew Alice had come back. He didn't turn to her, but Dean did. "Quick," he shouted at her. "I need towe-"

The end of his command was clipped, and then Sam saw a flash of fuzzy white before that heavy pressure was pressed back onto his chest. Alice had already brought towels, Sam thought with relief, and that meant Dean didn't have to leave him.

Sam wished Alice would leave though, but he couldn't draw up enough energy to ask her. But it was only fair, he realized dimly, since he'd already overheard George as he humiliated her with those personal, private insults.

Sam looked up at Dean's blurry form as he hovered over him. "I just wanted you to know," Sam told him. "I wasn't going to leave."

"No, I'm sure you spent the night at the bus station for kicks," Dean soothed, and only he could fit sarcasm into that cooing tone. Sam opened his mouth, but Dean saw and stopped him. "Shh, it's all right, Sam. Just don't talk, okay?"

Sam shook his head tightly, determined to finish. "No, I mean, that night in Idaho." His throat was closing on him and it felt as if he were talking through the roof of his mouth. "I wasn't going to leave you."

"Sam-" Dean warned.

"You messed up, Dean," Sam told him, feeling his voice fade. "You messed up."

"Sam, _shut up_!" his brother threw at him, his voice sounding almost like a shout to Sam's ears. "Goddammit, just shut up already!"

"I just-" Sam started, but Dean cut him off instantly.

"No, Sam, stop it! All right?" His voice trembled from some emotion, but Sam couldn't work it out. "Look—I'll talk, okay?" he continued in a rush, his eyes forcing Sam to focus on him. "You can yell at me later, but for now--I'll do the talking, and you just stay there and not let yourself die. You got it?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Dean's expression stopped him. So he nodded instead and found himself relaxing, not even realizing his body had been tensed.

"Sam, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, and I don't know how..."

Sam closed his eyes slowly and let Dean's voice wash over him. He heard some of his words, bits and phrases, or maybe he heard all of them but his brain chopped them up, too lazy to string them together.

"I missed you—maybe even worse than the first time you left for Stanford...I did this to you, to me...And then when Dad..."

But Sam heard his tone, heard the rise and fall in his inflection. He recognized the different emotions that colored his voice, though he didn't bother to identify them. Dean was talking, Sam realized. Dean was actually talking, was spilling his guts to Sam--and to Alice, but even the stranger's presence didn't stop him.

It really did feel good to let himself go, to feel like he was sinking into the carpet below him. The pain in his chest was fading, or moving away from him, and if he kept his breaths shallow, it didn't hurt as much. Alice was somewhere around, still talking to 9-1-1 it sounded like, pacing the room and still breathing. The monster of the week was dead. And Dean – Dean-his-brother, not Dean-as-John, or Dean-the-murderer, or Dean-the-weird-stalker-guy, but Dean-his-_brother_ – was at his side, talking to him and saying things Sam wanted to hear—although Sam knew he'd ask Dean to repeat himself, later, when Sam could listen and respond and tell him things he needed to tell him.

But for now, Sam knew he was okay, and as he listened to his brother'svoice, he let that darkness at the edge of his consciousness flood intohis mind until he knew nothing else.

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_To be continued..._

_Okay fellas, only one (mostly unwritten) chapter left. _

_Please review!_


	31. Chapter 31: ADDED June 19

Oh gosh, I think--I think this is it. I've finally finished this monster of a fic.

And yes, just like the rest of my story, this last chapter is three times longer than it needs to be. In fact, I'm fairly certain the first and last scenes are completely unnecessary, and there's just way too much dialogue - and yet despite all that, I'm sure I've still managed toforget some things. All errors are mine.

Thank you all for reading! I feel like popping open a bottle of champaign for everyone who's made it to the end. And _please_ review, let me know what you think - even if you're reading this months or even years after I've finished posting. Your comments - whatever they are -mean so much to me! Who knows, maybe one day I'll rewrite this thing, because lord knows there are a lot of things I want to revise.

But for now, I hope this is enough.

Disclaimer: _Supernatural _and everything associated belong to Eric Kripke and the WB/CW network. I've only borrowed them.

* * *

Sam knew this wasn't the first time he'd woken up. He remembered some time earlier a disorienting mix of Dean and brightness and voices that were or were not familiar. But this time, this slow ease into consciousness, he was fully aware of himself and, after a few halting moments, his surroundings. 

Sam came awake to Dean's voice. To him, it almost seemed an unbroken train of thought that wasn't his. It had been the last thing to slip in before darkness overtook him, and it was still there when he came back to consciousness, a low tone that overrode every other sound and even Sam's own thoughts.

But something was wrong, something was off. His hand was given a squeeze and his shoulder was patted, and then there was nothing, and in a sudden panic, he struggled to force his eyes open. But he must have been too slow, and by the time he could see, Dean's back was turned to him and he was already halfway to the door.

Sam reacted instantly, surging forward in blind desperation, propelling himself with an arm stretched towards his departing brother, but he was held back, hooked up to more tubes than he'd realized. He tried to roll away, to jerk free, but a sudden, blazing pain in his shoulder stopped him short, ripping a cry of pain from deep in his throat.

Dean stopped and turned, his eyes widening. "Sam!" he cried in alarm, immediately rushing back to him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"You can't leave me," Sam gasped at him, trying to ignore the throbbing in his shoulder that seemed to suck the air from his lungs.

Dean froze. Then he shook his head slowly, looking slightly ill. "I'm not leaving you," he said. But Sam didn't stop glaring at him, even though Dean seemed to ignore it as he pushed him back gently into bed. "I'm _not_," he repeated firmly when Sam opened his mouth to argue.

"But I heard you, just now," Sam protested. His position lying down frustrated him, so he scrambled for the bed controls, raising himself up so he was almost sitting. Now he was more level with his brother, a little less vulnerable.

A confused frown crossed Dean's face as he helped Sam readjust his position. "Then you heard me say I was going for coffee..."

Startled, Sam faltered at that, tearing his gaze away so he could concentrate. As soon as Dean said those words, it yanked the memory out, almost as if it were a dream he suddenly remembered, and Sam realized that _was_ what he'd heard. "But..." he fumbled, instantly feeling foolish, "You sounded—bad."

"Bad? Did they teach you that word in college?"

Sam scowled as he relaxed against the mattress. "Fine then. You sounded despondent. Dejected. Remorseful, penitent, sullen-" Dean held up a hand, cutting him off—which, thank God, because Sam's still-fuzzy mind fought against coming up with even those words.

"Yeah, well, I needed a cup of coffee to stay awake - but I didn't want to leave because I _knew,_ the minute I walked out that door, you'd wake up." He looked down at Sam with a dry smirk. "Looks like I was only half wrong."

Sam blinked a couple of times, feeling his body settle as the situation sunk in. "Sorry," he apologized with a shrug. "Next time I'll have a schedule ready. Who told you you needed to stay awake, anyway?" Just looking at the dark circles underneath Dean's eyes made Sam tired.

Then again, everything was making Sam tired. He felt like he hadn't completely woken up yet.

Dean didn't answer him, instead glancing down to guide himself into a chair next to Sam's bed. As he sat there, his eyes skimmed across the room and along Sam's body, as if he wasn't sure where to rest his gaze. For a brief instant he met Sam's eyes, but he quickly looked away.

"God_dammit_, Sam," he suddenly cursed. "You almost died."

"Did I?" Sam asked, immediately curious. He glanced down at his chest, although the angle was bad and his wound was too high and hidden underneath tight bandages. He knew the injury had been serious, but..."Didn't seem to hit anything vital."

Dean shook his head with a jerk. "You were in surgery for over three hours, Sam. There was no exit wound--they had to dig it out from your ribs. It just barely missed a lung. _They_ barely missed the lung."

Sam raised his eyebrows at the information. "Wow, really? Huh." He was pretty lucky, it seemed. Not too shabby for his first gunshot wound. He wondered if they'd let him keep the bullet as a souvenir.

Without any warning, Dean slammed a hand against the cheap wooden arm of the chair. "Dammit, Sam! This is serious!"

"Dean," he said slowly, with a patience he was surprised he had. "We face death all the time, in every hunt. I survived, everything's okay – we've done this all before."

The corners of Dean's jaw twitched. "But that part of your life was supposed to be over," he said.

Sam snorted humorlessly. "The last time I thought that part was over was the moment right before you broke through my front door and told me Dad was missing. And then Jessica died."

Dean shifted and gave a couple of false starts, licking his lips before starting hesitantly. Even before he started speaking, Sam knew what he was about to say. "But...this whole past year, you-"

"The hunt couldn't be over if I didn't know the hunt existed."

"What does that matter? It was over, whether you knew it or not."

Sam had hoped he wouldn't be asked to explain because he wasn't sure how to, not even to himself. "Look, I am who I am today because of the way I was raised, because of the hunt," he began, pushing through his weariness. "It's a part of me now. Even this whole year, I _felt_ it--but I couldn't identify it, and I--I didn't know how to ignore it, like I could before. It was there, and I couldn't turn my back on it because I didn't know what it was."

He couldn't tell if Dean understood or not. His brother was staring at the far wall, but then he turned his gaze to Sam, his eyes crinkled just slightly as if he were in thought, or maybe in pain. "Forgetting the circumstances," he started with a strained force, "Forgetting that I put you there--you gotta admit, that was better. Wasn't it?"

Sam shifted his gaze away, unwilling to look at him. Dean went on anyway, dogged despite Sam's reaction. "You had a new life, Sam, you had innocence again. You were safe and free and happy."

Sam was silent for a moment. "How's Alice?"

"She's fine," Dean replied with a frown. "Sam--"

Sam turned to him and tilted his head. "Do you know if she's talked to her husband?" he asked. "I think George put some ugly thoughts into her head, left her feeling pretty bad about herself."

Dean shook his head distractedly. "I don't know—I mean, they both stopped by to see you—Looked fine to me, I guess." He gestured at the window. "They brought you those flowers."

Startled, Sam looked over and felt a smile stretch his face. Sitting on the wide windowsill was a large, glass vase bursting with flowers—daisies, Sam thought, though he wasn't sure. "Oh, wow, that was nice of them," he said, pushing himself up a couple of inches. "You know, I don't think I've ever gotten flowers before."

"Dude, you took a bullet for her. I think the least-"

Sam pursed his lips thoughtfully and cut his brother off. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to do. Should I send her a thank you card, some kind of acknowledgment? Let her know I got them?"

Frustration was plain on Dean's face. "Who cares?" he grunted, waving a hand through the air. "They're just flowers."

Sam stared at the daisies for a moment before he replied. "It's just--I'm not used to being in the hospital. At least, not from this angle."

He looked back up at Dean, suddenly remembering how tired he was. "I've seen you here. Twice in one year—too many." He suppressed a shudder and forced those thoughts away. "But the last time I was in the hospital was--man..." He trailed off into thought, letting his mind separate emergency room visits and on-site treatment from actual stays, trying to remember the last time he spent the night in a hospital bed.

"You were seventeen," Dean told him. "A ghost threw you down a set of stairs."

"Ah, that's right," Sam said with a nod, suddenly feeling phantom pains from that time. "Funny, I was just thinking about the chupacabra." Was that yesterday, or just this morning, that he shared a car ride with Lt. Stevens? "I remembered I was so mad because I had to miss a couple of extra days of school. And then _bam_, I ended up spending the whole next week in the hospital."

"You really freaked Dad out."

"I freaked you out, too."

Dean shrugged, trying to be casual, but it looked more as if he were trying to get out from under a heavy weight. "Those first 24 hours--Doctors told us your, um, survival depended on how hard you were willing to fight for it. " He hesitated for a moment. "I was so—I thought you might just give up and leave us."

Sam frowned as he thought of that time. "And then a few weeks later, I did leave you." He graduated two months after getting out of the hospital, and the very next day told his family he was going to Stanford. It took another three years before he saw his brother again.

"Yeah, well, at least you were alive." Dean shrugged again and leaned back in the chair. "Turns out you did have something to live for."

Sam frowned, feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion sweep over him. "And now?" he asked Dean after a moment, letting his eyelids slide shut.

"What?"

Sam reopened his eyes and turned his head to look at him. "Do you think I have something to live for now?"

"Jesus, Sammy," he said, sucking in a breath. "What do you want me to say?"

It turned out he didn't have to say anything, because just then a nurse walked in to check up on Sam. Sam lied back passively, taking the chance to rest as he let her do what she needed to do. Dean ignored her, though Sam couldn't tell whether it was because he was too upset, or if she was a couple of years too old for him. Probably the former, he thought vaguely as he was poked and prodded, since age never seemed to be a problem for him before.

It wasn't until the nurse asked that Sam realized how much his chest hurt. A large yawn overcame him as she fiddled with the settings somewhere next to him, and he wondered if it were too soon to take another nap. Dean, still in the chair next to him, kept moving his hands around, as if he weren't sure what to do with them.

Then the nurse left after only a few minutes, leaving the two brothers alone again. Sam rubbed his face tiredly, running a hand across his scratchy, unshaven cheeks. The air in the room seemed to have stilled, and a long moment passed before Dean finally broke the silence. "You look like hell," he told Sam.

Sam pursed his lips into a kind-of smile as he met Dean's gaze. "Like looking into a mirror, I bet."

"Just go to sleep, man," Dean replied, giving his shoulder a pat. "You're practically there already."

But Sam shook his head. "Nah, I'm good." The last syllable was swallowed by another yawn.

"Ha, that's a good one," Dean said with a snort.

"Thanks."

Dean seemed to be waiting for Sam to act, but Sam didn't do anything more than keep a half smile on his face. "What's up with you?" Dean asked him after a moment. "You're not acting like Sam."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're being awfully..."

"Awfully what?" Sam asked when he trailed off.

"I don't know. Blasé?"

_Did they teach you that word in college? _Sam wanted to say, but it wasn't worth it. Instead, he shrugged and said, "Guess I'm just relaxed."

"You're relaxed?"

"Yeah, I am." For now.

"But—you're Sam," Dean protested with furrowed eyebrows. "You're _never_ relaxed. How can you be relaxed now? In a hospital. With—with me, here, like this. After all that's--"

Sam shook his head suddenly, quickly, needing him to stop. "No, not now. Please." It surprised him how much effort it took to keep his voice steady. "I'm not ready for that yet." He let his head fall back, sinking into the pillow. Exhaustion crept through his muscles, and he had to struggle to keep his eyelids open.

Dean stared at him for a long time before he nodded stiltedly. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Right now, you need to go back to sleep." He grinned suddenly, the same grin he used whenever he was about to say something stupid. "Hey, you think if I told them my arms hurt, they'll give me some of that stuff they're shooting you up with?" Sam was rolling his eyes before he even finished, but he felt a relieved smile tugging at his lips.

Dean stood up then, but it took Sam a moment to realize he was reaching for the thin bed sheet Sam had pushed aside when he'd first woken up. Dean's hands fumbled with the edges, his movements hesitant and uncertain as he dug around for the corners.

"I already told you, I'm good," Sam said as Dean drew the sheet up to his chest.

"You're exhausted," Dean told him firmly.

"I'm not going to sleep."

Dean stared into his eyes then as if he could command Sam's attention just by looking at him. "Sam, I'll be here when you wake up. All right? Just go to sleep."

Sam calmly looked back at him. "You first," he replied.

"Huh?"

"I'm not going to sleep until you do."

Dean frowned. "Is _that_ what this is about?"

"Yep," Sam replied simply. "You need it just as much as I do."

He saw Dean roll his eyes, "Dude, I'm fine. You're the one in the hospital."

"Actually, now that I think about it--I'm fine too. In fact, I think I'll go take a run around the block, just for the hell of it...Really get the blood pumping, you know?" He even moved to push himself up, but he didn't get very far before Dean's arm shot out, stopping him with a hand on his chest.

"All right, all right, I get it. Jeez." He plopped back down on the chair and shot Sam a harmless glare as Sam settled triumphantly back into the bed.

"I'll ask for a cot," Sam offered. "Maybe they could--" But Dean stopped him.

"Nah, I'm good right here," he said. He lifted himself up and started scooting his chair backwards until it sat a few inches from the wall. Then, settling back into the chair, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head back until it rested against the sky-colored paint. "See?" he said in demonstration, letting his eyes slide close.

Sam wanted to tell him he would sleep better if he'd only let them bring in a cot, but his mouth didn't want to bother with moving. So instead he lay there and watched his brother, propped up against the wall. If Dean wanted to be stubborn, that was fine with Sam. He wouldn't be the one waking up with a crick in the neck.

After a moment, one of Dean's eyes popped open. "I told you," Sam immediately said, ready for it. "I'm not falling asleep until you do." Dean grumbled something under his breath and closed his eye.

Sam watched him as he waited, thoughts from the day swirling around him in a murky, unreadable mess. His shoulder throbbed dully, and he was eager to sink into consciousness. But, in the stillness of the hospital room, far from the shifter, far from the basement where Dean had been handcuffed, Sam couldn't take his eyes off of his brother.

"I didn't even know your favorite color," Sam said suddenly.

"Yeah, I _know_," Dean complained without opening his eyes, his voice indignant and hurt. "What kind of sister are you?"

Sam smiled and sank back in the bed. It didn't take long for Dean to fall asleep, only a few minutes passing before his breath finally evened out. Satisfied, Sam closed his eyes and let the rhythm of his soft snores lull him to sleep. He was out in less time than it took Dean.

OoOOoo

Sam woke first. Or at least, when he woke up, Dean was fast asleep. His brother had apparently shifted at one point though, because when Sam opened his eyes, he found himself staring at the top of Dean's head, resting against the mattress near Sam's elbow. His body was hunched forward now, one arm hanging in his lap and the other cradled around his head, and Sam almost woke him because he was leaving a small puddle of drool on Sam's sheets.

But he didn't. He waited until Dean awoke on his own, almost twenty minutes later. His head shifted first, slowly, and then he jerked and his green eyes popped open. It only took a second of searching before his eyes found Sam's, and once they did, he seemed to gather himself together and pushed himself up from the bed.

"I'm ready to talk," Sam told him.

Dean straightened and scrubbed his face with a low groan. Sam waited as his words sunk in, watching as Dean seemed to prepare himself. "Yeah...okay..." he muttered to himself, squaring his shoulder. Sam could almost hear him pray for a sudden ghost attack. Dean had always been more comfortable with hunting.

They lapsed into silence, regarding each other. Sam knew Dean was expecting him to speak first, but Sam made no move to start. It took Dean a moment to realize Sam was waiting for him—or maybe he'd just gotten too uncomfortable with the silent tension that stretched between them.

"I'm not going anywhere, you know," he said.

Sam nodded, slowly because his chest was still on fire. "Yeah, I know."

"You keep staring," Dean told him, looking unsettled by Sam's response. "You haven't stopped watching me since you first woke up."

Sam gave him a tight smile. "Beats looking at the wall, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, but man, you--"

Sam sighed and then he did look away. "It's just...It's weird, Dean," he said. "The last time I knew you as my brother, you were barely recovering from almost dying. Dad was gone, we were falling apart, and my last memory of you, you were in so much pain you could barely move."

He swallowed, feeling a headache coming on from the tense way he was pushing his eyebrows together. "And then...all of that was completely gone—missing—from...from _me_. But now suddenly here you are again, just as sudden as I lost you."

A moment passed before Dean answered. "Well, at least I'm back in top physical shape," he said wryly.

Sam shook his head and snorted. "Sure you are," he said, deciding not to bring up the scars he'd seen littering his brother's body, or the wounds still fresh on his arms. "But you're still screwed up. Just as screwed as I am."

As hard as his brother tried to suppress it, Sam still saw Dean flinch. He jerked a hand up to rub his face, as if trying to cover for it.

"Why did you come back, Sam?" he asked wearily, his voice sounding almost pained.

"For this. What we're doing right now."

"What, talking? We could have talked on the phone," Dean shot back. "Would have been helluva lot less dangerous. No deranged shifters, no gunshot wounds…"

"I think this goes beyond a phone call," Sam replied. "Don't know why you're complaining though—Saved your butt."

"I had a plan," Dean told him indignantly.

"The hell you did," Sam remarked, thinking of the envelopes that should still be in his pocket. He couldn't shake the image of Dean handcuffed to the pole, refusing to let Sam anywhere near him. "Why didn't you come with me back there in the basement? Even if I were the shapeshifter, at least you'd have the chance to fight."

Dean blinked and glanced briefly down at the floor. Wetting his lips, he looked back up at Sam. "If--If you had been anyone else, even Dad, I would have," he said. "But…" He broke off, shifting his stance. Sam wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Dean shuffle his feet in such an obvious sign of nervousness. He'd always been adept at hiding his anxiety, his uneasiness.

"I wanted it to really be you too much," Dean finally admitted. "I was scared that I would screw things up--that I would actually try to believe it was you. You saw it, that guy was sadistic, had a psychological fetish. I just--I didn't want to get to that point…even if I knew it wasn't you."

Maybe Sam could understand that. At least being handcuffed would have helped keep Dean grounded, the same way the gun in Jessica's hand shattered the illusion the shifter tried to force on Sam.

And he could understand the pain in facing the shifter. In St. Louis, it had been hell for Sam, hearing the things the shifter said coming from Dean's mouth. It hadn't even pretended to be Dean, only looked like him--but that was enough. It knew what to say, what nerves to strike. It knew how to bury him in guilt and shame.

But Sam, at least, never stopped fighting.

His whole life, he'd never seen Dean stopped fighting either, not ever, not as long as there was a monster of some sort running around. "That doesn't sound like you," he said after a moment. "Giving up like that." As he spoke, he studied his brother, wondering how much his brother had changed in the past year.

In St. Louis, Sam suddenly realized, his guilt had been small. He never really regretted going to Stanford, only that he had to leave his brother behind – and yet, the shifter's words had still been nearly unbearable.

How would it have been if he'd carried around as much guilt as his brother now did?

Dean, though, seemed to have other concerns. "Yeah, well, at least I was smart enough to not jump in front of a freakin' _bullet,_" he growled.

At first, Sam almost dismissed it as an obvious deflection, but then he saw that his brother was seriously upset. "I had to," Sam explained.

Dean shook his head and leaned forward. "Whatever the hell you thought you were doing, it wasn't worth it," he hissed.

"I saved her life."

"And you almost got yourself killed!"

Sam didn't hide his annoyance. "How many times in our long and illustrious career have we risked our lives to save people's lives?" he pointed out. "At least this time, you didn't erase my memory afterwards," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Dean stiffened and looked away, and Sam wondered if he should have saved that remark for later. But Dean eventually nodded to himself. "What?" Sam asked.

"Just…go on."

Sam realized he was waiting for him to continue, but he didn't know what to say. "You really thought I was trying to kill myself?" he finally asked. "During the goatman attack?" He'd been wondering that ever since he got his memories back, and he needed to straighten the jumbled pieces of the past just so he could start to make sense out of Dean's actions.

Dean seemed to be surprised by Sam's question, and he shrugged, his movements stilted and tense. "Maybe not trying--but you didn't care."

As much as he wanted to deny it, Sam wondered if there was a bit of truth in Dean's statement. It wasn't that he hadn't care, but he remembered feeling so hopeless back then that he almost gave up. "And I couldn't protect you," Dean continued gruffly, "and it scared me because I couldn't protect you and you didn't care. I mean, how could I trust you on your own when you didn't even care about protecting yourself?"

Sam didn't have an answer for that. "But the other night, back in the hotel when you were explaining...Why didn't you just tell me you thought you were saving my life?"

Dean's eyes, looking tired, rolled back to face Sam. "C'mon Sam, you know I don't make excuses," he said. "That wasn't the only reason I did what I did. I don't even think it was the main reason. And even if it was, Sam--would that have made it any easier to accept?"

Sam frowned and slowly shook his head. No, it wouldn't. But... "I just need to know—I'm trying to understand." He needed something, anything that let him know things could be fixed. His eyes started to sting, and he had to blink away the sudden moisture.

"What do you want me to say?" Dean cried angrily, almost desperately. He jumped to his feet, towering over Sam. "That I was hopped up on painkillers? That I'd gone temporarily insane? Hell, that I heard voices telling me to? Would any of that make you feel better?"

"Just tell me the truth," Sam asked in a voice so low he wasn't even sure Dean would hear him.

But Dean did. He ran a hand through his hair and started pacing the room. "What does that matter?" he railed. "It doesn't change anything! What does it matter that my chest hurt so bad I couldn't think straight? That I never stopped being scared since the moment that bastard threw me to the ceiling and no one was there?"

Dean, now at the foot of Sam's bed, spun around to face Sam. "Are you going to suddenly forgive me because I was chickenshit, scared that I would wake up one day and you wouldn't be there anymore? Because that's why I did it. _That's_ why."

Sam looked back at him, feeling his chest restrict painfully. "I wasn't going to leave you."

"Yeah, you already said that yesterday—you know, when you were dying," Dean replied, his voice thin and bitter.

"It's still the truth."

Dean sighed and set a hand against Sam's bedrail. "Look, Sam, I know you believe that," he said, his expression dangerously calm all of the sudden. "But you were so damn _miserable_. The only reason you weren't already on your way was because of guilt. The only reason, and you know it."

His hand tightened around the railing, and the pressure seemed to shoot up his arm and into his shoulders. "It'd only be a matter of time before that wasn't enough anymore," he continued as his voice suddenly trembled. "And that's _not_ how I wanted my brother beside me."

"So, what are you saying?" Sam asked, feeling impatient and out of control. "You were scared that I'd leave you, so you decided to make sure that happened?"

Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Dammit, Sam, I was scared you'd decide to leave me without looking back," he said. "I was scared because I knew you _had_ to leave. And--I was scared that you wouldn't leave."

Sam looked at him sharply.

Dean met his gaze. "I needed you, Sam, but not as much as you needed out."

"Out?" Sam echoed cautiously, thinking he already knew the answer.

"Out of hunting! Out of our life!" Dean cried, throwing his hands into the air. "Dammit, Sam, I don't understand what you're doing here! I mean, if you're going to yell at me, just start already! Come on and give it to me!"

Sam was stunned for a moment by his outburst, and he wasn't sure how to respond. He'd meant to yell at Dean—the whole ride to Tulsa, he assumed there would be lots of yelling once he'd finally confronted his brother. But suddenly, lying there in bed, he didn't have the energy.

He turned to look out the window, but the vase of daisies obstructed his view. The flowers offered an improvement, he realized, seeing nothing past them but cloudy gray sky.

"Why did you come back, Sam?" Dean asked again, after Sam hadn't said anything.

Sam kept his eyes on the daisies as he considered his answer. "For this past year, I didn't know I hated hunting," he said.

"You can't hate what you didn't know existed," Dean remarked. "You were blissfully ignorant, at least until I pushed myself back into your life." Bitterness laced the latter part of his sentence.

Of course Dean missed the point. He'd always been good at that. Sam tore his gaze from the flowers and looked down at his lap.

"You made me forget everything, Dean. You know I can never excuse what you did," he told his older brother. Dean nodded in acceptance, not arguing. "But it helped me realize something."

"Yeah, what's that?" Dean asked tiredly.

"You've always told me how noble our job is, saving lives and fighting evil, and I couldn't exactly argue with that," Sam told him. "But I never really believed it. Or even really cared..."

Dean rolled his head, exasperated. "Aw, hell, Sam, you know I'm no saint," he complained roughly, scrubbing his jaw with a hand. "I just say crap like that to make myself feel better, you know, make what we do easier. To reassure myself that it's all worth it."

"But the thing it...it _is_."

Dean was silent for a moment. "Well, you're really making sense here. I practice some nasty voodoo on you, and you suddenly realize just how wonderful the supernatural really is."

Sam sighed and glared at him. Dean noticed, and with lips twitching, he lifted his hands and took a step backwards in a sign of surrender. Satisfied his brother would lay off the sarcasm, Sam relaxed and tried to explain. It took him a moment to figure out how to start.

"I know you were checking up on me," he said at last. "I saw you – even though you were in the background, I saw you...and I couldn't look away."

Dean started, shooting Sam a confused look.

"I didn't know what it was, just something about the way you carried yourself, the look in your eyes, or—gah, I don't know," Sam broke off, shaking off his frustration. "But when I first met you—when I knew you as John—I started to realize what that something was." He paused and wet his lips.

"You know I love Rebecca, right?" he asked. Dean blinked and nodded uncertainly, obviously startled by the sudden change of subject. "Zach, too. I mean, they were just good friends at first, but —I was so lost, and they took me in, practically made me family. It meant so much to me."

As he listened to Sam speak, Dean came over to the wall and leaned back against it, keeping his face in a careful mask. Sam glanced at him out of the corner of his eye before continuing. "And they did all of this, even though Zach had just lost his girlfriend, and Becky was almost tortured to death. They were the last people to deserve the hell they'd gone through. And I kept thinking, what if things had gone differently, and they hadn't survived?"

Dean shook his head, lost. He let out a little puff of air, sounding like he was trying to speak but wasn't sure what to say. Sam went on before he had the chance. "Then you come along, and I find out _you're_ the one who saved them."

"Now, wait," Dean rushed to protest. "You-"

Sam waved him off, and Dean fell silent. "Then you exorcised my room, and the very next day, you went right after the next hunt." Sam shook his head at the memory. "Just like that."

"So what? It was no big deal, Sam, you know that," Dean replied.

"Yeah, _I _know it's not a big deal," Sam quickly agreed, and Dean gave him an exasperated, then-what's-the-problem? kind of look. Sam leaned towards him earnestly. "But to Becky and Zach, and to that guy at the lighthouse, and to everyone else we've saved, it _is_ a big deal."

Dean drew in a long, tired breath. "And you got the flowers to prove it, right?"

"Dammit, Dean!" Sam cried, his upper body lurching forward, and a wide-eyed Dean quickly muttered an apology.

"Look, you took away my memories," Sam went on, "And that was absolutely the wrong thing to do--by far the worst thing you have ever done, _ever_. But..."

Dean listened to Sam without moving, and sometimes Sam hated talking to Dean when he was like that. It made it harder to say things when Dean refused to give any reaction. Sam tried anyway, feeling a desperate need to explain the feelings rushing inside him. "Dean, it gave me a different perspective. I got to see what we do, without all that crap I grew up with, without the anger at Dad, and all the resentment."

Sam was forced to wait as Dean considered his words. "So, what, you liked what you saw? Is that what you're saying?" Dean asked him dubiously.

Sam nodded. "You were right, Dean, we save a lot of lives doing what we do. It _is _worth it."

Dean let out a dry bark of a laugh as he peeled himself from the wall. "Okay, so what does that mean? You gonna take off, start up a Sam chapter of the Winchester Hunting Association?"

Sam raised his eyebrows, but he didn't get a chance to respond.

"So you boys are hunters?" a new voice asked, and they both turned to see a middle-aged doctor walk into the room. They had to put their conversation on hold, and Sam had to admit, he was relieved for the break.

"Yeah, we are," Sam replied before Dean could.

The doctor nodded and smiled and made small talk before asking Sam questions about his health and well-being. Sam answered dutifully, eager to keep the check-up smooth and quick. The doctor seemed pleased with his progress, giving him bits of information Sam had mostly heard already during previous hospital visits.

As the doctor looked him over, Dean stood in the corner, quietly gazing out of the window. Sam glanced at him once but otherwise gave the doctor his full attention. He couldn't risk disrupting the delicate balance he'd forced his thoughts into.

The doctor soon slipped back out, but Dean didn't move from the window.

Sam studied him for a moment and realized his brother had aged much more than the year they'd been apart.

Watching him, Sam felt his mouth go dry. "Do you regret what you did?" he asked him.

Dean turned to him with a jerk. "Yes. Of _course_ I do," he said thickly. As he moved, the light from the window framed his form and at first Sam couldn't see his face. But then he stepped away and came to Sam's side.

"But I don't regret the results," he admitted, looking down at Sam.

Stung, Sam's eyes flickered and he had to swallow before he could speak. "What do you mean?" he slowly asked, his voice hardening.

"Look, Sam, I _know_ what I did was wrong. It wasn't fair to you, and I had no right," Dean said. "And I know you think you've rediscovered yourself, or hunting, or whatever, but Sam..." He ran a hand through his hair and then let his arm drop to the side. "You were actually happy."

Sam almost snorted, but he managed to stop himself. "How would you know?"

"I _saw_ you," Dean replied. "At the bar. You were with friends, and you were laughing." His face twisted strangely, and his whole body seemed to sag before he let himself drop down into the chair. "I mean, dammit Sam, my whole life I've never heard you laugh like that."

Sam frowned, startled by Dean's words. He had to think back to that night he thought Dean was referring to, when Sam had found him outside throwing up—but that night hadn't been anything special. He thought of that night, and every other night he'd gone out with Becky and her friends, and it took him a while before he figured out what Dean meant.

"Dean, whenever I laughed with my friends..." he trailed off, trying to put his explanation into words. "I was mostly just laughing because I wanted to laugh. I _needed _to laugh. But it wasn't real, not exactly."

Dean seemed to study him. "But it kinda was, wasn't it?" he pointed out. "I mean, you never even laugh at my jokes. You just roll your eyes and groan."

Sam smiled then. "Dean, I roll my eyes and groan because you're my stupid older brother." Dean huffed with indignation, causing Sam's grin to widen before he turned more serious. "And I do too laugh when I'm with you," he went on. "And when I do, _that's_ real. I don't need to laugh to tell myself I'm fitting in, or that I'm adjusting to life, I laugh because something was honestly funny."

"Oh, come on, Sam," Dean replied, sounding incredulous. "If that were true, you'd laugh every time you looked in the mirror and saw that stupid, shaggy haircut."

Just as he'd said, Sam rolled his eyes, although this time also threw his pillow at him. "You're such a jerk," he said.

Dean grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "Yep. Bet you're glad now, huh?"

"Glad about what?"

"That you didn't have to spend the past year with your big brother."

Sam's good mood instantly vanished. "Dean..." he warned.

"You _were_ happier, weren't you," Dean pressed. stubbornly "You don't owe me anything, especially not now, so just admit it."

"Dean, even if I were-"

Dean held up a hand, cutting him off. "Don't worry, I won't take it as a sign of forgiveness or approval or anything like that. Just admit you were better off."

"No," Sam firmly replied.

He could tell Dean was growing frustrated by the way he lurched forward. "But--just _look_ at yourself!" he exclaimed, gesturing with a wave of his arm.

Sam glanced down and raised his hands helplessly. "What?"

"You're a college graduate now. You can do whatever the hell you want!" Dean told him. "You have choices now, real, honest-to-God _options_."

Sam shrugged him off irritably, knowing Dean wouldn't let him get by without answering. "Okay, Dean, _yes_, it helps," he admitted with exasperation. "All right? Having a choice helps."

"See?" Dean cried in triumphant, shoving a finger into the air at Sam. "You got what you wanted! You're halfway to being a lawyer--to having that life you've always dreamed of!"

"That was before-" Sam started to argue, but Dean cut him off.

"Stop being stupid, Sam—just stop being so _stubborn_. Dammit, you earned this, you deserve to be finally happy! That's all I ever wanted for you!"

Sam stared mutely as Dean railed at him. He felt his jaw clench, and he swallowed forcefully. "No, Dean, you're wrong," he said, steeling his voice. Dean stopped and looked at him, his expression unprepared.

"I wasn't happier," Sam told him.

As his words sunk in, Dean's face suddenly became stricken. "Dammit Sam, you woke up from a nightmare _crying!_" he burst out.

Sam felt his breath catch, and the memory rushed at him out of control.

"You _never_ cried from nightmares before," Dean went on with a force that pierced through Sam's chest. "Not even over Jessica."

Sam blinked rapidly, holding back the emotions rising recklessly inside him as he forced himself to think. No, he never did wake up crying over Jessica. He didn't cry when he had nightmares of Jessica before her death because he didn't believe they were true. He didn't cry over the nightmares after her death because he'd already mourned her. But he cried that night because he didn't want to mourn Dean as well.

With that realization, he looked back at his brother, keeping his breathing deep and slow. His shoulder was throbbing again and his chest was tight, and he felt like he had to be careful, or else he'd fall apart completely. Dean was watching him, silent and still in his chair, his face now impassive, unmoving.

"Did you like being alone?" Sam asked him.

Dean stiffened at Sam's sudden question, but he quickly composed himself. "That doesn't matter," he said, and his voice was rough but insistent.

"I hated being alone," Sam told him.

Dean's eyes shot towards him in an instant of wild panic.

And then without warning, his face crumpled as he suddenly lost whatever hold he had. And Sam watched, stunned, as his walls collapsed completely right before his eyes, and then Dean ducked from his gaze, his head dropping down with a jerk. His whole upper body curled over his lap, his back hunched and his head hanging almost limply from his shoulders. On the top of his thighs, his hands curled into tight fists, and they slowly came up to press against his eyes. And Sam couldn't see his face, but he could see his shoulders as they started to shake.

"Dean..." Sam said softly, startled to hear the tremble in his voice.

Dean shook his head, refusing to look up. "I hated it, Sam," he admitted with a choke. "I hated what I did to you. I don't-I don't know how much further I could've gone."

"Dean, listen to me."

"I'm so sorry," Dean whispered, struggling between gasps. "I'm so, so sorry..."

"Just listen to me," Sam forced out. His own vision swam, but he managed to keep the tears from falling. And he knew Dean was listening to him, even as he wrestled with the silent sobs his shoulders couldn't seem to restrain. "Everything's going to be all right, Dean," Sam told him, wishing Dean would just look up.

"I'm not going to leave," Sam went on, and his voice finally cracked on him. "I need my big brother, okay?"

That's what he had to live for, and he hated that Dean hadn't been able to see that.

And then Dean did look up at him, his eyes red and wet and swollen, and Sam could see he was struggling to keep his face from crumpling again. Sam sucked in his breath, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder and chest, deathly afraid he'd miss whatever Dean had to say.

"We really are screwed up, aren't we?" Dean asked.

Sam sagged, his shoulders dropping, and he let out the breath he'd been holding. "Well," he said after a moment, feeling a weak smile tugging at his lips. "General consensus does say we're freaks..."

And just like that, the tension seemed to break around them. Dean snorted wetly, and to Sam's relief, he returned his smile, even if it were only a shadow of Dean's usual smirk. "Well, some things you just can't help," he remarked.

Sam let out a laugh--a wet, shaky sound, but without a doubt a real laugh—and Dean, though he looked slightly stunned, quickly joined in.

It didn't last long, and as soon as it ended, Sam felt a wave of exhaustion flood in its place. He was drained, as tired as he'd ever felt, and that laugh took the last bit of strength he had. But even so, it sparked something inside him. After a year of searching, Sam realized he could finally be Sam again.

OoOOoo

Sam was soon released from the hospital, and the two Winchesters checked into a roadside motel a few miles outside of town. This time it was Sam who was brushing off his brother's help, and Dean was just as stubborn as Sam had been about helping anyway.

They waited for Sam to recover, and Dean remained painstakingly patient as Sam took his time easing back into his former life. They even took a long, slow drive all the way to California to visit the Warrens, at Dean's suggestion.

After a few days at Stanford, Sam found a werewolf sighting in Wyoming. Dean was immediately eager to start, practically bouncing on his heels as they packed up their things - but unlike before, there was a definite lack of desperation in his actions.

As they drove past the city limits, Dean looked over at Sam, hunched over in the passenger side as he studied the articles he'd printed from the Internet. Sam stopped reading, feeling his brother's eyes on him.

"So what about your white picket fence and two-and-a-half kids? Are you really giving that up?" Dean asked him.

Sam shrugged, leaning back against the long-familiar passenger seat. "Who says I have to?" he replied.

Dean cocked an eyebrow at him.

"The future's wide open, Dean," Sam explained easily. He was confident about the road stretching before them. If one day he decided to make hunting a part time gig, or even retire from it completely, he knew that unlike before, he'd make sure his brother was a part of his life in one way or another.

He turned to grin at his Dean. "Heck, who knows--maybe one day I'll find my Buffy."

Dean laughed. "Dude. You could never get a Buffy."

"Sure I could," Sam replied.

"No."

"I'm sorry, did you meet Jessica?"

"Yeah, and she was out of your league, too."

"Yeah, she was," Sam admitted. "But I still got her, didn't I?"

Dean didn't answer, but Sam saw the smile he tried to hide. Sam turned back to the printouts, but after a moment, he found Dean giving him another long look. "What?" Sam asked.

But his brother just shook his head. "Nothing," he said.

And though Sam couldn't read his exact expression, he thought he knew what Dean was thinking.

Things were finally starting to feel all right.

Ramifications from Dean's actions still lingered over them, issues still needed to be hammered out, and Sam knew it would only be a matter of time before they found themselves into another new mess – that was their luck, their style even.

--But as they raced from the sun setting behind them, Sam wasn't worried.

The End.


End file.
